


Emerald

by LaBelladoneX



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, St. Patrick's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:01:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaBelladoneX/pseuds/LaBelladoneX
Summary: "I said…" Hermione began again, stabbing even harder. "Legend has it St. Patrick got rid of all the snakes from Ireland. He bloody missed you!" What started out as a lighthearted one-shot now has more legs than the Giant Squid. There was a competition of sorts, now there's an epilogue, and plans for more additions in the future. I can't say no! Re-edited March 2019.





	1. St. Patrick should have paid more attention

**Author's Note:**

> Lá fhéile Pádraig sona dhaoibh - Happy St Patrick’s Day to you all! 
> 
> This one-shot was originally just for the fun of celebrating our national day but now it’s grown. I’m unsure of where to go with it so I came up with a competition of sorts: Can you lovely readers come up with ideas for what you’d like to see included in the fic? Best ones get the fic gifted to them. Let’s see if we can get it to between three and five chapters, yeah?
> 
> Also, the fic has no particular timeline and is full of liberties. So, if any of you are anally addicted to canon - epilogue aside - press the back button and go enjoy the St Patrick’s Day parades instead.
> 
> Love to my Golden Trio - coyg-81, In Dreams, and Noppoh. Thank you guys for continuing to work with me.

 

Hermione Granger was freezing.

The surprisingly good Cappuccino from the vendor on the windy platform did nothing to heat her up, but it calmed her nerves. A little.

The darkened intercity train suddenly came to life before her as it opened its automatic doors for the passengers to embark. Joining the throng, Hermione stepped up into the nearest carriage and chose a seat facing the direction in which she’d be heading. As her fellow travellers stored their bags and chatted amicably about the next day’s national holiday, however, the fretting witch sipped her drink and prayed to Merlin she was doing the right thing.

“Fáilte go dtí Iarnród Éireann,” the recorded voice announced over the tannoy. _Welcome to Irish Rail._

The announcement continued with details about the forthcoming journey. Not understanding a word of Irish, Hermione slipped on her headphones and selected a playlist from the music app on her mobile phone. But each song reminded her of _him_ and tears pricked her eyes as the train sped towards the Irish midlands. Five stops — she had five stops before she’d reach the town Pansy had mentioned and, from there, an hour’s bus journey to the village where he now lived.

Hermione now owed Pansy Parkinson a debt of gratitude she didn’t know if she could ever repay. The Slytherin hadn’t been forthcoming with any information regarding him for almost a year and Hermione had used everything in her arsenal to break down his Secret Keeper’s walls. She had tried asking nicely, followed by a healthy dose of demanding, before throwing a large dollop of bribery into the mix. But Pansy would not budge. Even the night Hermione collapsed at her feet in a pool of tears didn’t sway the stubborn witch.

* * *

One week ago, however, her office was invaded by the demanding Slytherin who barged in without permission and turned the pining Gryffindor’s miserable world upside down.

Hermione had cried herself to sleep the night before — _again_ — and had resorted to a variety of glamour charms to make herself presentable to her pupils. She didn’t want Headmistress McGonagall questioning her teaching abilities; her mentor was already concerned about her state of mind _outside_ of the classroom, so it went without saying that the elderly witch was keeping close tabs on the young History of Magic professor.

“Granger!” Pansy had demanded, marching across the room. “Take note, I’ll only say this once. He’s in Ireland.”

“Wha-what?” Hermione stumbled, grabbing her chair and collapsing down heavily into it. “ _What_ did you say?”

“Are you deaf! I said he’s in Ireland. _Muggle_ Ireland, to be exact. Fuck! That’s _three_ times I’ve said it!”

“Why—”

Pansy sat down in front of Hermione’s desk, placing her designer handbag on the floor — checking first to make sure it was clean. Then, pursing her lips, she sighed heavily, raising her eyes to the glass paperweight that held some parchments in place before looking up to face the trembling Gryffindor.

“I have been Draco’s Secret Keeper for a year and I fully intended to have his location die with me. But I can’t do it anymore.”

“Why not?” Hermione whispered, afraid to raise her voice in case the Slytherin before her suddenly changed her mind and ran out of the door.

“Because of your bloody best friend! He’s — I don’t know — he’s made me weak and I-I hate it!” Pansy practically snarled. “Damn Harry fucking Potter for doing this to me!”

Hermione couldn’t help but smile. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”

“Yes!” The other witch spat. “You don’t know what it’s like for me! I can’t… I didn’t want this!”

She stood abruptly and began pacing the room.

“We purebloods are not supposed to have _feelings_ ; we’re brought up _not_ to care. But _you_ … you bloody Gryffindors have all the emotions. And know what to do with them! I don’t know what—”

She stopped ranting and took a deep breath, turning back to face Hermione.

“Harry had a meeting in our Department recently and I had to attend in McLaggen’s place because the twat was off sick with some infectious disease a Muggle he’d shagged gave him. I hope it fucking falls off… Anyway, after the meeting, Harry asked me to have lunch with him in the cafeteria. Girl’s gotta eat, right? Lunch turned into dinner, then lunch the next day… and the next. It went on for a week before we… well, I’m sure The Brightest Witch Of Our Age can put two and two together.”

Hermione smiled weakly, nodding at Pansy’s comment.

“He had to travel to Germany on Friday,” she continued. “He won’t be back until Wednesday at the earliest. It’s been… quiet without him around. I got used to the fucker. And I-I… I fucking _miss_ him, alright? It’s horrible. And I hate it!”

Hermione raised her wand and conjured her Patronus, requesting Professor Grey take her classes for the day. His positive reply came back almost immediately. He was rather taken with the young professor — a fact Hermione would never consider taking advantage of. Until now.

“Come on,” she announced, standing up and walking around to where Pansy was still pacing. “Let’s get out of here.”

As they walked towards the village, Hermione assured Pansy that her best friend felt _exactly_ the same about the pureblood heiress — having heard all about _the best thing to ever happen_ to Harry when they last met up for lunch.

* * *

The witches bonded over breakfast tea and scones at Madam Puddifoot’s, peacock feather quills at Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, the latest designer fashions at Gladrags Wizardwear, and lunch at the Three Broomsticks. Over afternoon drinks, Pansy revealed the secret of Draco Malfoy’s whereabouts and Hermione hatched her plan.

“I honestly have no idea why he left, Hermione,” Pansy had admitted as she sipped her wine. “It was the day after his trial ended; he arrived at my apartment with an envelope. He didn’t say much but, as I was making coffee, he picked up a photo I had of both of us at the Yule Ball. Don't get me wrong; the only reason I had the picture framed is because I thought I looked good in it. There’s a crowd in the background and Draco isn’t even looking at the bloody camera! Anyway, when I handed him his coffee, he asked if he could have a copy of the photo so I made one for him there and then.

“I told him about my new job and how my community service was going. He didn’t say much but, when he got up to leave, he hugged me and told me to take care. I was stunned, Hermione! Draco Malfoy does _not_ do public displays of affection — even to a fellow Slytherin.”

Hermione refreshed their glasses as Pansy continued.

“He asked me to open the envelope after he’d left, which I did. It had an address and a short note saying he hoped we’d meet again but, for now, he hadn’t the heart to live amongst his kind. The address was just two words and would change on the parchment if he moved or—”

Pansy took a deep breath. As a witch, and a Slytherin, it was unheard of to reveal another’s secret but she chalked this down to exceptional circumstances and Harry fucking Potter.

“Castleford, Westmeath.”

“Do you know of it?” Hermione asked, her heart thumping.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Pansy replied. “I did look it up; it’s in the midlands about fifty miles from Dublin heading west. That’s all I know.”

“Thank you. I don’t—”

“You may not know how to repay me _now_ , Hermione Granger. But, don’t you worry, I’ll think of something.”

* * *

“Táimid ag druidim An Muileann gCearr.” The announcement alerted Hermione to her surroundings. _We are approaching Mullingar._

She watched the passengers rise from their seats and retrieve their bags and luggage — her weekend bag was shrunk into the top pocket of her denim jacket so all she had to put away were her headphones. Disembarking from the train, Hermione followed those who’d also stepped onto the platform towards the station, stopping a member of staff to ask where she’d get the bus to take her to Castleford.

“There’s one every half hour,”  Mick — according to his badge — replied as he directed her to the location of the bus stop. “You can wait in the station; it looks like rain.”

Hermione thanked him and sat down by the nearest window. She spent the time there biting her lip and concentrating on the people who came and went from the station, making up names and occupations for each of them. Her favourite was Margaret, the coffee shop owner, who was having an affair with Tuesday morning Book Club’s chairperson’s eldest son — despite him being in college studying for the priesthood.

After ten minutes, she saw a small bus approach the station.

“Miss!” Mick called over. “That’s your bus.”

Hermione stood and thanked him before making her way out of the station, walking quickly across the carpark as Mick the Meteorologist was correct in his weather predictions.

A few minutes later, sitting just behind the bus driver so he could let her know when her stop was approaching, she was being jostled along the narrow Irish roads and heading towards her destiny. At least, that’s what she hoped.

* * *

Castleford was basically rectangular in shape, with two roads stretching out from each of the four corners. The centre of the village had a large green with a playground and benches scattered around the rather ugly water feature. A large plaque commemorated some long-forgotten siege of somewhere and bunting was flying from every available pole and tree. Dozens of people were on the green watering large flower pots and erecting gazebos as the holiday fever began to fill the air with laughter and camaraderie.

Hermione stepped away from the bus that had stopped in front of the only hotel in the village. She felt sick with nerves; _he_ was nearby. Draco Malfoy was within walking distance.

It was almost too much to bear.

Plucking up her Gryffindor courage — most of which she’d left behind at Hogwarts — she walked into the hotel and straight up to the reception desk. Tapping the bell at the counter a few times, she waited for someone to arrive.

“Hello,” a friendly voice piped up behind her. “Sorry, it’s a bit mad here at the moment. They’re all getting ready for the parade. Are you checking in?”

Hermione turned to find a plump middle-aged lady coming towards her with a towel wrapped around her head.

“Em… I am. Hermione Granger.”

“Ah, yes. I wasn’t too sure what time to expect you,” the Molly Weasley lookalike continued. “Pardon the towel, by the way. We’re all having our hair dyed for tomorrow — raising money for the local hospital. Now… where are we?”

As she checked the register for Hermione’s name, the young witch bent down and pretended to tie the lace of her Converse. She took her bag from her jacket pocket and enlarged it to its regular size before standing back up.

“Ah, there you are. Room seventeen.”

Molly’s long lost twin handed Hermione a key with a scarlet tassel hanging from it and pointed towards the stairs.

“Straight up, turn right, and walk all the way to the end. I’m Marian, by the way. Come down when you’ve settled in, first drink’s on the house.”

“Thank you, I will.” Hermione smiled warmly before climbing the stairs.

* * *

Having unpacked her small bag, she sat heavily on the edge of the large bed and wiped a stray tear away from her cheek.

 _“_ Where are you? _”_ She whispered to the empty room.

But there was no answer to that. Not yet, anyway. All she knew was Draco was here, in Castleford.

There was the nagging fear that he had someone in his life; that he could be happily in love with a Muggle called Patricia who was a professional Irish dancer, bred pomeranians, and preferred to be called _Pat._

If that _was_ the case, then she’d just pack up and return to Hogwarts where she’d live out her years in quiet solitude with her seven cats and a collection of doilies.

A few minutes later, Hermione found herself amongst a large group of laughing women who — like Marian — were having their hair dyed in various shades of green for the next day. Her hostess kindly introduced her to them as she poured a pint of Guinness for the hotel’s newest patron — whether Hermione wanted one or not.

So, as she sipped the creamy pint and prayed to Merlin she’d get used to the acquired taste, Hermione met Marie (Mah-ree), Marie (Mar-ee), Mary, Maureen, Maura, and Margaret (who liked to be called Peggy). _Okaaaay!_

“Now, Hermione,” Marie (Mar-ee) asked, having assumed the role of chief interrogator as she towel-dried her grass coloured locks. “What brings you to Castleford? The only attraction here is the fishing and you don’t look the type.”

“Well…” She began, licking the head of the pint from her top lip. _Hmm...not bad_. “I’m here to visit a friend… from school.”

“With that accent you certainly didn’t go to St. Mary’s,” Marie (Mah-ree) piped up.

“No, I’m definitely English,” Hermione laughed. “My friend is also English and went to school in Scotland with me. He—”

A chorus of _oohs_ and _aahs_ followed that comment, much to Hermione’s embarrassment. She hid behind the next mouthful of Guinness and felt her cheeks burn.

Marian, whose hair was now a shocking shade of lime, thought for a moment. “I’m guessing you’re in your late teens, hmm?”

“I’m actually twenty two,” Hermione replied.

“Nearly right.” The landlady passed off her estimation of Hermione’s age as close enough. “And you went to school in Scotland… the friend — the _male_ friend — you’re looking for also went to school in Scotland… with you… but lives here now. Hmm… doesn’t have hair the colour of mashed potatoes, does he?”

One really isn’t supposed to drink Guinness through one’s nose but Hermione Granger certainly gave it a go.

_“Wh-what?”_

“Of course!” Peggy exclaimed, nodding at Marie (Mar-ee) and Marie (Mah-ree). “Sure who else would it be?”

“You think?” Maureen raised an eyebrow. “Jesus, if I was twenty years younger!”

“And the rest!” Maura elbowed her friend. “Didn’t he go out with your Katie for a while, Mary?”

Hermione’s stomach plummeted to her Converse.

“No,” Mary whispered conspiratorially. “They’re just friends. Katie introduced him around when he arrived first — about a year ago, I think. She fancied the arse off him but he wasn’t interested.”

“Is he… you know…” Marie (Mar-ee) nodded her head frantically in that typically Irish way of expressing oneself.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I hope not.” Marian blessed herself. “What a feckin’ waste that’d be! God himself didn’t make Danny O’Malley only for him to be wasted like that.”

Hermione was temporarily forgotten as the menopausal Grindylow-like women, with their various shades of green hair, sighed like lovesick schoolgirls over this Danny O’Malley who may, or may not, be gay. And had hair like a potato.

A phone ringing brought them back to their senses and Mary apologised profusely for the noise as she rifled through her handbag for the vibrating culprit. In her haste to answer her smartphone, she managed to turn the device off so the next few minutes were spent in hormonal contemplation as Margaret — aka Peggy — talked her through the process of how to slide her finger across the screen and not stab at it. It was then Mary remembered she had a picture of Danny O’Malley somewhere in her phone from her daughter’s twenty-first a few weeks before. Once Margaret — aka Peggy — had found and opened the file, and everyone had looked at the numerous snaps of the birthday girl posing with half of Westmeath, Mary pointed out the picture in question.

There he was.

Danny O’Malley.

Draco Orion Malfoy.

Hermione swallowed and, in keeping with the festivities, began to turn a rather unhealthy shade of green.

A second pint was put in front of her and, before she could protest that she hadn’t eaten and didn’t want to get drunk, Marian’s eyebrow arched in a rather Slytherin manner — the one that meant _don’t fuck with me and do what you’re told_.

Pansy had that one down to a tee.

“There’s eatin’ and drinkin’ in that,” she informed the lightweight. “And you’re not going anywhere until we hear more about your _friend_.”

Hermione grimaced. “I guess I’m having another pint so.”

Prompted and cajoled by Marian, Marie (Mah-ree), Marie (Mar-ee), Mary, Maureen, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — Hermione explained about her formative years in the remote boarding school and the rivalry between her dormitory and _his_ one. She was very careful with her explanations and used the long gulps of Guinness to form the words in her head before speaking. It was quite easy at first; until the fourth — or was it fifth? — pint. By then, she was pouring her heart out and it was only by the grace of Merlin that the seven shades of green were equally as drunk — including the landlady — and didn’t notice her slip-ups.

“So this Pansy one? She kept his whereabouts secret all this time?” Mary tried to keep up.

“Yep.”

“And only told you because she’s in love with your best friend?” Peggy added, looking for confirmation.

“Yep.”

“Well, thank God for small mercies,” Marian piped up. “Now, here’s the thing. A girl doesn’t just turn up in this place looking for a boy she went to school with for nothing...”

“Nope.” Hermione interjected, picking up where Marian was purposely leaving off.

“So he means something to you, I take it.”

“Yep.” Hermione slid her empty pint glass across the bar. “He means—”

She didn’t get to finish that sentence. The door opened and Mary’s husband Mick — not the one from the train station — walked in, alongside her son Michael. Right behind them came the love of Hermione’s life; he whose hair looked like mashed potato.

Marian’s slight cough and less frantic nod over Hermione’s shoulder _should_ have alerted the very drunk Gryffindor that something was up, but it didn’t. All she heard was the chorus of hellos from the equally drunk ladies and the amused greetings from Mick and Michael. She was in the process of trying to turn on her bar stool, whilst balancing her — which number was it? — pint, when Peggy spoke up.

“Not working tonight, Danny?”

“No, Peggy. It's my night off. And the pints in here are worth the walk across the Square.”

_Pfft. It's a rectangle, not a square._

The blood that had pooled around Hermione’s Converse earlier was now joined by the rest of her life-giving liquid. She inelegantly spun on her stool and wobbled in front of the three men. Mick was about to say hello when she stumbled forward and poked a finger right into Draco Malfoy’s chest.

“He missed one,” she slurred.

Draco was speechless. Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of Hermione Granger in front of him. Here. Where no one was supposed to find him. Although a tiny part of him had always hoped...

“P-pardon?”

The audience around them was captivated.

“I said…” Hermione began again, stabbing even harder. “Legend has it St. Patrick got rid of all the snakes from Ireland. He bloody missed you!”

Draco didn't get a chance to reply; he barely had time to catch her as she passed out in front of him.


	2. Green is the new “black” according to Hermione Granger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note - Sorry! This took a little longer than I had planned to put together - real life, being too addicted to other fics, real life - blah, blah, blah... Anyway, thank you SO much to everyone who commented or PM'd with ideas for me, I have a LOT to think about now. As always, my love goes to coyg-81, In Dreams, and Noppoh for being - in the words of FatBoy Slim - my Weapon of Choice.

Hermione Granger was freezing. Again.

She woke to find herself in a double bed, in a hotel room. Well, not actually _in_ the double bed but _on_ it and still dressed in the light T-shirt and jeans she had been wearing the previous evening. She’d never tasted her hair before but it seemed to be making a good job of trying to choke her from the inside out.

Sitting up — very slowly — Hermione realised she was in her own room at the hotel she’d checked into the day before. Before the Guinness. Before Mr Potato Head himself appeared and did… what? _What happened?_

Circe’s ingrown toenail! What _the fuck_ happened?

She glanced over at the bedside locker to find her mobile phone vibrating across the wooden surface before crashing onto the floor with a dull thump. Hermione winced at the sound and leaned over to retrieve the device which — thanks to the hotel’s industrial-strength carpet — had survived its two foot plummet. The bedside lamp caught her attention as it was still on and, as Hermione reached for the switch, a flicker of light passed over the mandatory bible that also adorned the top of the locker.

_Funny, that wasn’t there yesterday._

She looked again, squinting as best she could considering her eyelashes felt like they’d been fried in batter. The book’s cover flickered again. Licking her lips — which felt like Mrs Norris’ fur — she reached out only to watch the bible shimmer and dissolve before coming back into focus as a small green velvet pouch. Hermione frowned. Obviously she was seeing things. Maybe she was still dreaming; she certainly felt like she was still drunk.

Before she could react any further, two small vials flew out of the pouch and landed on the bed beside her hand. Considering the brain cells that hadn’t been annihilated by the “Power of the Pint” were particularly slow at warming up this morning, Hermione was surprisingly quick to compare herself to Alice holding a bottle in her hand labelled ‘Drink me’. There was only one person who could have left the glamoured potions beside her bed and it took three, maybe four, seconds before even more memories of the previous night came flooding back in a tidal wave of green hair, black alcohol, and mashed potatoes.

And snakes.

Hermione never got a chance to open either vial. It was approximately six seconds later when she landed on the bathroom floor and threw her head over the toilet.

* * *

A knock at the door some time later pulled her out of her vomit-induced misery.

“Hermione!” Marian’s voice was crystal clear, as if she’d been drinking tea instead of lowering pints along with her customers the night before. “Hermione, love, are you alright?”

“Em… yeah… one moment,” Hermione called, scrambling up off the tiled floor and throwing herself across the bedroom to grab the vials off the bed. She shoved them into the locker drawer and quickly _hawed_ into her hand to check her breath before turning back to the door.

She didn’t remember she was a witch who could have easily cleaned herself up with a brief swish and flick — she didn’t consider her wand at all. She didn’t think to drink either vial straight away. She didn’t even think to flush the toilet after hurling five pints of Guinness and a takeaway Cappuccino into it. Hermione Granger was either (a) still drunk, or (b) thick.

Marian’s fresh-faced smile met Hermione when she eventually opened the door of room seventeen, having had to fiddle with the ancient-looking lock.

“Well, there’s a face like a slapped arse,” the landlady laughed. “Happy St Patrick’s Day!”

Bustling past Hermione, Marian stepped into the room and immediately scrunched up her nose.

“Oh, you poor creature,” she cooed. “I have just the thing.”

She produced a packet of headache pills from her pocket and opened one of the complimentary still waters from the dressing table.

“Take two now and throw yourself under the shower. I’ll have a Full Irish ready for you in twenty minutes.” Opening the door to let herself out, Marian turned back to the girl who looked as sick as a hospital. “Best crack a window there, love.”

Hermione could only attempt a feeble shrug in apology.

Once the door closed behind Marian, she slumped back down on the bed and winced as her tender stomach instantly reminded her that ‘slumping’ was prohibited for the foreseeable future. Taking a few cautious deep breaths, she opened the drawer beside the bed and retrieved the two vials.

The potions’ labels were handmade and the print was, most definitely, Draco’s. Hermione had always loved his aristocratic script, the way he held his quill, the look on his face as he concentrated on the words he wrote…

She sighed and opened the Hangover Cure first, knocking it back quickly and instantly feeling her stomach settle. Her head was still tender but the Pepper-Up Potion that followed solved that issue so, after taking a deep breath, Hermione felt a thousand times better — physically. Her mental state was still a bit foggy. But she did manage to remember her wand and had herself washed, dried, dressed, and styled — reasonably well — within Marian’s allotted time.

So, twenty minutes later, Hermione was sitting in the hotel’s restaurant — also known as the lounge — and working her way through Marian’s Full Irish which, she realised, was the exact same as a Full English but without the beans. Her request for coffee was frowned upon as, apparently, strong Irish tea sits better with the sausages so, when she was finished eating, Marian approached her table with a fresh pot and poured tea for both of them.

“I figured you might need to talk, love,” she smiled.

Hermione looked down at her plate and sighed. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“He’s a grand lad,” Marian commented. “Danny O’Malley has settled into Castleford like he’s been here all his life. But something’s missing… something’s not quite right. I’m not the only one who’s noticed but, if there’s one thing about this place, we don’t gossip… out loud.”

She laughed heartily, bringing a smile to Hermione’s face.

“I said a lot last night,” the usually brave Gryffindor began. “Most of it probably didn’t make any sense considering the amount of Guinness I drank but the one thing I can tell you is that he doesn’t like me in the way I like him. I don’t even know why I came here, Marian. What did I think would happen? _Hmm?_ That he’d sweep me off my feet and come home with me? _Why did I come?”_

She leaned her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands.

“Because you’re in love with the lad. It’s as clear as the nose on your face,” Marian replied. “And, from what I saw last night, he certainly wasn’t _unhappy_ to see you—”

Whiplash can be quite painful.

“Wait… _what?_ What do you mean?”

Marian smiled warmly. “He caught you as you fell, Hermione, and hoisted you up in his arms like Richard Gere in An Officer and A Gentleman. It was so romantic that Maura had the tissues out — although she usually does after a few. Anyway, where was I? Yes! He looked at me and — as politely as you like — asked if you were staying here. I told him I’d get your key and, before you know it, he’s carrying you up the stairs and putting you down on the bed.”

Hermione’s face was as pale as Nearly Headless Nick.

“Did-did he say anything? About me?”

“Not really,” Marian replied, grimacing slightly. “Sorry, Hermione. The only thing he asked was if I’d leave the window open so you could get some fresh air.”

_So that’s how the potions were delivered._

“I-I think I need to find him… to apologise… and grovel.”

Marian reached over and patted Hermione’s hand.

“I don’t want to speak out of turn but, if I’m right and I’m sure I am, the look on his face when he laid you out on that bed was one of concern and… something else.” She thought for a moment for continuing. “Respect, I think. He’d make a wonderful mortician.”

They stared at each other for a moment before bursting into howls of laughter.

“Thank you, Marian,” Hermione breathed, wiping her eyes after a few minutes. “I really needed that.”

“You did,” the older woman grinned. “Now, let’s get that young man over here.”

As she stood, the door to the restaurant/lounge burst open and a panicked Marie (Mah-ree) stormed in.

“Sweet Jesus, Marian!” She gasped, clutching her breast as if she’d just heard the Pope had turned Protestant. “Paddy promised he’d have the trailer over this morning but now he needs the tractor to spread slurry over Murray’s fields. _They_ can’t do it because their tractor is in the Mullingar parade so I won’t get my hands on the trailer until this afternoon. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Mar, how am I going to get the trailer dressed for our parade?”

She slumped down on a bar stool and Marian instantly moved to pour her a measure of Power’s Gold Label.

Hermione, who was still trying to catch up with the rushed monologue, walked over to the stricken woman — who looked positively pastoral with her wild green hair.

“Why can’t the em… slurry… be spread tomorrow?” She enquired, before adding, “What’s slurry?”

“Cow shite.” They answered in unison.

“Oh.”

“It’s like fertilizer for the farmland,” Marian explained — Marie (Mah-ree) was too busy downing her second whiskey. “Has to be spread before the rain or else we’ll be poisoned with the smell. It’s due to get wet later on this evening so that’s why it needs doing.”

“Even though it’s—”

“Slurry waits for no man,” Marie (Mah-ree) nodded sagely. “If the rain’s coming, then that’s that. Now, _how_ am I going to get this trailer done?”

“We’ll all help, love,” Marian reassured her friend with a third whiskey. “Get all the stuff ready to go and, when Paddy’s back with the trailer, we’ll get stuck in. I’ll WhatsApp the girls.”

It’s very common in Ireland to use a brand name as a verb as Hermione discovered on her way down to breakfast earlier. The bemused witch had overheard one of the housekeeping staff announcing she was going to _Hoover_ the reception area — whilst pulling the vacuum cleaner along the industrial-strength carpet — and another brandishing a mop and bucket and declaring _she_ was off to _Flash_ the public toilets.

“Can I help?” Hermione enquired — she figured she owed these women for practically adopting her the evening before.

Marie’s (Mah-ree’s) face lit up — which was quite easy considering it was now a vibrant shade of red. With the green hair, and slightly yellowed teeth — due to far too much coffee — she looked positively Rastafarian.

“Oh, Hermione, would you? I have just the job for you!” With that, she raced for the door. “Be at the salon by two!”

They watched the door slam shut before turning to each other. “What have I let myself in for?” Hermione bit her lip, trying to keep in the laughter.

“I’m really not sure,” Marian replied before walking out from behind the counter. “You should get your head down for an hour or two, it could be a long day.”

With the Pepper-Up Potion working a treat, Hermione felt perfectly fine and fit for anything — except going to find Draco Malfoy.

“Could I help you for a bit instead?” She asked Marian. “I don’t really want to go up to my room and mope.”

Marian smiled warmly, placing her hand on Hermione’s arm. “Of course you can,” she offered. “Come on, I’ve the Ballroom to prepare for tonight’s party.”

* * *

A few hours later, Hermione and Marian — with the help of Maureen who also worked part-time at the hotel — stood back to admire their handiwork. The decorations were very… green — tinsel, bunting, streamers, banners, balloons, ribbons — it was like the Slytherin common room on speed. Several banqueting tables had been laid out with green tablecloths, large green candelabras and…

_“Shite!”_

Hermione and Marian looked around at the rather distressed Maureen who was rifling through boxes and emitting a string of curses only an Irish person would fully understand.

“What’s wrong, Mo?” Marian walked across the dance floor to her friend.

"The _fucking_ Christmas decorations are mixed up with the _fucking_ Paddy’s Day ones. That _fucking bollocks_ of a poxy husband of mine can’t do a fucking thing right. _The fucking arsehole!”_

She stood up with long silver candles in her hands. “We can’t put these in the candelabras, Mar! The bloody tables will look like it’s—”

“They’ll do, love,” Marian soothed her friend. “Besides, by the time everyone arrives in here for the party, they’ll be too drunk or too wet to care. It’s supposed to rain by the time the parade’s over.”

“It has been looking like rain for a while now,” Maureen mused as the conversation between the two women continued about the inclement weather.

To avoid her eyes glazing over, Hermione searched through the boxes nearer to her for suitable looking candles but only found more silver ones. She turned to let Marian and Maureen know she had no luck finding any but was stopped by the sight of several tall green candelabras glistening in the light of the silver candles Maureen had just lit.

The Full Irish nearly came up to greet her. It was bad enough to be surrounded by green decorations and green hair whilst in a country known for being ‘green’ — and not the recycling kind — that just happened to be celebrating its national day of greenery, but to add silver to the mix was just a bit too much for Hermione’s fragile heart… and stomach.

Watching the other two as they continued to discuss the oncoming weather conditions, she waved her hand over the box and collected the bundle of candles that were now a more appropriate candy striped green, white, and orange.

“What about these?” She enquired, holding them up as she made her away across to the amateur meteorologists — practically everyone in Ireland is one.

Both women frowned. “I’ve never seen them before,” Marian commented, taking the bundle from Hermione. “Have you, Mo?”

“No, I fucking haven’t, and I bet you _anything_ that fucking tool of a husband picked them up at the Cash’n’Carry but never bothered to tell us about them. _Fucking gobshite!”_

She stormed off to confront said gobshite.

Hermione turned to Marian. “Does Maureen not get on with her husband?” She asked quietly.

“What? Oh, God! I’ve never seen a more loved-up couple. They’ll be twenty-five years married in a few months time — big party planned. Jesus, if anything happened to Séan I don’t know what Maureen...” she trailed off. “I feel the same about my Mícheál—”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione interrupted. “Your _what?”_

Marian looked confused for a moment before realising what she had said. “Oh, love,” she laughed. “ _Mícheál_ , it’s Irish for Michael. You pronounce it _Me-Hall_. That’s my husband. But you won’t meet him, I’m afraid, he’s at the horse racing for the next week over in England with Peggy’s husband, Frank. They go every year.”

“Does he ride?” Hermione asked innocently.

“Well, now…” Marian raised an eyebrow before bursting into laughter at the slow change in Hermione’s skin tone as she realised what she had just asked.

“Oh… em… I didn’t…” Yeah, Gryffindor courage. Right there.

“They drink England dry, that’s what they do,” Marian laughed. “Come on, let’s grab a sandwich before we go over to the salon.”

* * *

 _The Grateful Head_ was across the Square —   _it’s still a bloody rectangle_ — from the hotel and right beside FitzGerald’s Pub... and Undertakers.

“That’s where Danny works,” Marian pointed out as they hurried across the damp grass.

 _"A funeral home?”_ Hermione gasped.

“No, no. He’s a barman in the pub. Good one too, I’ve been trying to poach him for some time.”

Draco Malfoy; Prince of Slytherin, heir to a fortune, born with a platinum spoon in his mouth — silver being too gauche — was a barman.

Draco Malfoy pulled pints for a living.

Draco Malfoy wiped down sticky tables and changed kegs.

Draco Malfoy was doing _manual work._

_Why?_

The look on Hermione’s face had Marian placing her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder to stop her walking any further. They stood on the grass, right beside a gazebo advertising a local scaffolding company — _Erection Perfection_ — and faced each other.

“Whatever Danny O’Malley is running from, he’s found some peace here. He’s settled in and seems happy… _enough._ But, with an accent like that, he’s not from your average family, I’ll say that for him. Am I right?”

Hermione didn’t want to reveal his secrets but her wary look said it all.

“It’s not for any of us to know,” Marian confirmed. “And I admire you for not gossiping, Hermione. But, if he’s trying to hide here, you need to be careful. He’s—”

She was cut off by the shrieking of one still-worked-up Marie (Mah-ree).

“Women! Will ye hurry up!” She cried from the door of the salon. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

“We’ll chat later,” Marian assured Hermione as they hurried across the road, narrowly avoiding being run down by one of the local primary school teachers who was racing around the Square — _ahem!_ — in his Ford Bronco which he had imported from the United States and, therefore, made him look very important.

And a tool.

They were met by a very harassed looking Marie (Mah-ree) who was dragging some of her salon furniture towards the back door of the premises. Mary, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — were also rushing about with decorations, handmade signs, and salon equipment. Hermione was just about to ask what she could do to help when she was overcome by the foulest stench her nostrils ever had the pleasure to entertain.

“Thank _fuck_ ,” Marie (Mah-ree) exclaimed. “He’s here!”

Walking out the back door of the salon, Hermione caught sight of a long trailer being pulled into the yard by the filthiest tractor she had ever seen — not that she’d seen many. The stench of something even Hagrid wouldn’t touch filled the air around her.

“Jesus, Paddy! Why didn’t you wash the trailer?” Marie (Mah-ree) came running out.

“You wanted me here on time, love,” Paddy jumped down from the tractor cab. He was a short man but, what he lacked in height, he certainly made up for in muscle. His grey hair was cut tight and, with his handsome features grinning cheekily at his wife, it was impossible not to like him straight away.

“It’ll have to do,” Marie (Mah-ree) moaned. “I’ll spray it with some air freshener. Oh, Paddy, this is Hermione. She’s staying at the hotel and helping us out.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward in an Eastern-Bloc-spy-meets-Russian-counterpart way. “She’s a _friend_ of Danny’s.”

Paddy smiled. “Well, any friend of the best barman in town…” He grasped Hermione’s hand tightly and shook it with gusto. “Welcome to Castleford, Hermione.”

“Thank you,” she choked, seriously considering asking Draco if he’d brought any Skele-Gro with him.

“Right,” Marie (Mah-ree) rubbed her hands. “Let’s get to work.”

With ten minutes to go before the start of the Castleford St Patrick’s Day Parade, the tractor and trailer had been completely transformed to look like a mobile hair and beauty salon. The stench of cow shite now lingered on everything from the fleece blanket draped across the beauty treatment couch to Hermione’s borrowed _I’m Your Lucky Charm_ T-shirt. She reckoned it would take copious amounts of Diva Dust shampoo to make her hair smell clean again.

The distant sound of the local town band breaking into that well-known Irish tune, _Dancing Queen_ , had Marie (Mah-ree) jumping up and down. “Places everyone! Oh, Hermione, you stand there… okay? Now, the whole theme of the float is to promote the salon and Katie’s new beauty rooms upstairs. So here’s what I want you to do…”

* * *

Draco Malfoy stood outside FitzGerald’s Pub — and Undertakers — with a pint in his hand. Being one of the busiest days of the year in Castleford — the whole country, really —  he didn’t have time to check up on…

_Hermione Granger._

_Here._

_In Castleford._

_Here._

_Fuck Pansy fucking Parkinson._

_Secret Keeper, my fucking hole._

_Fuck! I sound Irish._

“Happy Paddy’s Day, pal,” Michael shouted over the noise of the town band as they marched by to _You’re The One That I Want_. “You off later? Me and Kate are headin’ to the hotel for Mar’s party. Comin’?”

Oh, he had _every_ intention of visiting the hotel later.

“Yes,” Draco shouted back. “But I’ve something to do first.”

“Oh, yeah?” Michael winked, throwing his free arm around Katie’s shoulders. “Yer wan last night with the hair?”

The look on Draco’s face practically ordered Michael to never refer to Hermione Granger as “yer wan” again. Ever.

Tractors — both shiny and battered — adorned in various shades of green passed them by as the parade continued. The Ford Bronco got egged by a few teenagers — much to everyone’s delight — and the secondary school’s hurling team showed off their skills whilst shivering in their hideously coloured team shirts. The local “celebrities” — a few politicians and someone who’d been on television once — were seated in the V.I.P. area, i.e. an old shipping container with one side cut out. There was a display of JuJitsu by the new club that had been established by someone who wasn’t originally from the town — commonly referred to as a _blow-in_ — so the applause that followed the members as they passed by — whilst throwing various shapes around — was fairly muted.

All of this Draco found highly entertaining and he felt a sense of calmness wash over him as he leaned against the door of the pub and sang along with the town band as they belted out _Sweet Caroline_ . As a barman for almost a year, he had worked at his fair share of eighteenths, twenty-firsts, anniversaries, retirements, and funerals. _Sweet Caroline_ was a must at every one.

But _never_ in his wildest dreams did he think he would witness the sight of Hermione Granger on the back of a trailer that was decked out like a hair and beauty salon, wearing an _I’m Your Lucky Charm_ T-shirt, whilst performing the actions to the well-known — albeit slightly tweaked — children’s song _Head, Shoulders, Nails, and Toes._

She passed by in a blur of hair and laughter. Draco didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so animated, so lively; she was a sight to behold and, for a moment, he forgot to hate Pansy Parkinson.

But… _what was that smell?_

And was that _snow?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming soon to a record store near you - The Ballad of Danny O'Malley


	3. The Ballad of Danny O'Malley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, real life and all that.
> 
> To In Dreams and Noppoh, thank you for dropping everything to beta this so quickly. As for you, coyg-81, I bow to your smutability. 
> 
> Remember the competition? Well, a massive thanks to those of you who came second - LightOfEvolution, Bonjita, Bridget Vo, Ardina Falconhurst, and Leabella. Of all the people who lost, you guys came first. 
> 
> So, without further ado, Emerald is dedicated to the lovely Matsyakanya. Go raibh míle maith agat, thank you. X

Hermione Granger was still freezing.

Snow was now pelting down on the exposed trailer as the tractor pulled up again outside the back of the salon. The town band was now marching in double time, causing the woodwind and brass players to huff a little faster into their instruments. _Hey Jude_ had never sounded so… breathy.

“Quick!” Marie (Mah-ree) shouted, shaking flakes from her green hair, and leaping from the back of the trailer as if it was second nature. “The furniture will be feckin’ ruined!”

She ran to the salon’s back door and wrenched it open, dashing back to the trailer to grab throws, pillows, and anything else she could reach before the snow could do much damage.

That left Hermione, Marian, Mary, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — to lift the beauty bed, chairs, and tables down from the back of the trailer and start hauling them back towards the salon. Hermione, being quite fit — war does that to you — jumped down easily, lifted off a portable nail station, and followed Marie (Mah-ree).

The other four women began to discuss who’d get off the trailer first and who’d stay on to hand down the furniture, despite the driving snow threatening to freeze them where they stood. It was eventually agreed — after Hermione had returned, climbed back up, moved all the small items over to the trailer’s edge, jumped down, collected two support stools, _and_ carried them back inside — that Marian and Maura would stay on the trailer whilst Mary and Margaret — aka Peggy — would hop off.

‘Hop’ is probably not the best term to use. Mary got down on her hands and knees in the middle of the trailer and crawled across to the side, turned herself around, and tried to drop off the edge before realising she had nothing to hold onto and began wailing for someone to help. And — since the Sacred Heart of Jesus wasn’t available at that precise moment — Marian and Maura came to her rescue, each holding onto one hand as Mary lowered herself off the side, frantically waving her feet around until she felt terra firma — approximately three-and-a-half feet below.

“Oh, Jesus, oh, Jesus,” she panted, blessing herself several times. “Sacred Heart of Jesus, oh, Jesus.”

“You’re alright, Mary,” Marian tried to calm her friend. “Aren’t you back on the ground now?”

“Oh, Jesus.”

Whilst Mary’s dramatic descent of “Mount Trailer” was going on, Hermione returned — again —to retrieve two styling chairs, carrying each one back into the salon before spending a few minutes inside helping Marie (Mah-ree) place the damp throws and pillows near the radiators.

She then headed outside to witness Margaret — aka Peggy — sitting on the edge of the trailer with her legs dangling down. Wiggling her arse forward, she used her arms for support as she began to lower herself down. Unfortunately, her skirt got caught on a loose nail and gathered up around her waist, leaving Margaret — aka Peggy — hanging over the side of the trailer with a massive pair of granny knickers on display.

It was no use. They were not going to get all the furniture inside fast enough and there was no sign of the weather changing. _If only_ , Hermione thought, tapping her leg where she could feel her wand.

Looking around for some masculine assistance — Hermione wasn’t one to admit feminine defeat but the muscles on Paddy would really come in useful right about now — she discovered his arse sticking out of the passenger window of a DeLorean that had just pulled up.

“Nah, it’s over,” she could just about make out from his muffled voice. “Our parade’s earlier, lads. But you’ll catch the one in Garradrimna if ye hurry.”

He maneuvered himself of out the window and stood up, tapping the roof of the sports car in a my-best-mates-are-in-this-car-despite-the-fact-I’ve-only-just-met-them sort of way.

“But you’ll only get there on time if you go at eighty-eight miles an hour, lads, wha?”

There was silence in the car, and outside as well. If it wasn’t for the blizzard conditions threatening to transform the village into a winter wonderland in the middle of March, rolling tumbleweed would have made an appearance.

Paddy was the only one who laughed before muttering under his breath about feckin’ kids not knowing a decent movie if it kicked them in the arse. Turning to the ladies, he rubbed his hands together.

“Right, what’s to be moved?”

Ten minutes later, the rest of the salon furniture — along with a middle-aged lady — had been lifted off the trailer and was safely indoors. The snow-covered vehicle was now on its way back to the farm where Marie (Mah-ree) and Paddy lived, the stench of slurry and air freshener still lingering in its wake.

Saying goodbye to Marie (Mah-ree), Mary, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — at the salon’s front door, Hermione and Marian dashed across the Square — _well, now_ — towards the hotel.

“Everything’s set for tonight, Hermione,” Marian chatted as they stamped their feet just outside the main hotel entrance. “You get yourself ready and I’ll have a dinner sent up. The bar’s full already, judging by the noise.”

Hermione smiled, despite shaking from the cold. “That’d be lovely, Marian. I’ll be down in an hour or so.”

“Grand,” the older woman replied over her shoulder as she made her way to the kitchens. “Then we’ll see what we’re going to do about Danny O’Malley, alright?”

* * *

In the meantime, Maura left her friends in the salon — where Marie (Mah-ree) was breaking into her secret stash of Bailey’s Irish Cream — and headed next door to FitzGerald’s Pub and Undertakers. The business had been in her husband’s family for generations, and she found Declan behind the counter laughing heartily with some members of the town band who were downing hot whiskies like they were glasses of lemonade.

He excused himself from the present company and walked over to his wife of twenty-seven years.

“Hey, love.” He kissed her tenderly, taking her small hands in his larger ones and rubbing them together. “You must be freezing. Fancy a hot port?”

“No, I’m alright,” Maura answered, loving the way her husband had no issues with public displays of affection. It mortified their two sons but still made her insides go all gooey. “I’m looking for Danny.”

“Trading me in, are you?” Declan winked. “He’s changing a keg for me, then heading home for a few hours. He’s supposed to be off today but… something’s on his mind, Maura. Lad’s not happy.”

“It’s still bad outside, Dec,” Maura replied, frowning. “I’ll work the bar for a bit. Will you drive him home? See if he’ll talk.”

“Yeah, alright,” her husband agreed. “But you’ll get no gossip outta me.”

“Course I won’t,” she winked.

* * *

An Taisce Faoi Cheilt, The Hidden Treasure, was a rather imposing country residence located around two miles from the village — in Ireland measurements don’t have to be _too_ precise as “close enough” is perfectly acceptable — and stood as a local landmark for almost a century.

It was a large Georgian three-bay country house with three storeys looming over a basement, and was surrounded by various outhouses and stables, all of which were converted into small apartments catering mostly to the tourist trade. Only a few were lived in all year round. The house was usually booked for weddings, the grounds for film locations, and the entire estate was maintained by Mick and his family of employees, Mary and Michael.

Nobody knew who actually owned the property; all leasing agreements were carried out by the local estate agents, who acted on behalf of an unknown board of trustees. The family name on the original title deed was of French origin but wasn’t familiar to anyone living in the locality — _de Malfoi._

After the trials, when Draco had needed somewhere to escape to, Lucius suggested the house at Castleford. The family only kept the property for sentimental reasons — Draco had been conceived there — although that tidbit of information was only known to his parents.

He researched the house and its history first, discovering some old diaries belonging to his great-great-great-grandmother. In one, Draco learned her sister had eloped with a local Muggle called Danny O’Malley and was obliterated from the family tree. Had things gone Draco’s way — if he’d got what he always wanted — he, too, might have been ripped away from the infamous tapestry.

Although, in the past year, his parents _had_ publicly acknowledged the error of their pure-blood ways. But would they have welcomed her? If not, he would’ve gladly followed in the departed footsteps of his great-great-great-aunt. But that was all a moot point anyway and he needed time… to heal. And forget.

Danny O’Malley? Well, Draco Orion Malfoy could work with that.

So, a vague descendant of one Daniel O’Malley secured a lease on one of the smaller apartments — although Lucius couldn’t understand why Draco didn’t just move into the main house — and spent his last few weeks at Malfoy Manor with the house-elves, learning to fend for himself. When he could successfully iron a shirt and his boiled eggs no longer had the consistency of grenades, he travelled to Castleford — the Muggle way.

His first week there was peaceful; he walked for hours around the estate, familiarising himself with his new surroundings. He met Mary, Mick, and Michael one morning as they were arriving to prepare the house for a wedding party and spent an hour playing the tourist in his own family home. Then, having accepted their invitation to join them for lunch, Draco found himself in FitzGerald’s Pub along with Maura and Declan, eating toasted cheese sandwiches and tasting his first pint of Guinness.

“What do you do then, Danny?” Declan had asked him over lunch.

Draco had already prepared a backstory for himself but, being a skilled Legilimens, he was able to word his answers to suit the questions. And Declan was currently in need of new staff.

“I work in the bar trade.” The lie was easy. “I took some time off to travel around but I’m anxious to get back behind the bar now.”

“Are you staying here for long?” Maura enquired.

“Well, I’ve a year’s lease on the apartment with an option to extend it,” Draco replied. “So, if something comes up here, I might stay. Castleford feels very much like home right now.”

Maura and Declan exchanged one of those ‘we’ve been together for so long we can read each other’s minds’ looks.

“Fancy a trial here, Danny?” Declan asked as he organised another round of drinks. “Our eldest is taking over the funeral home, our youngest is away at college, Mary spends her time between An Taisce and the salon, and I can’t run this bar on my own. I could do with a good barman.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Draco smiled. “Although maybe not tonight, I’ve had enough Guinness that all I want to do is go home and sleep.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Mick laughed, nodding in thanks as Declan placed another pint in front of him.

“Friday night then,” Declan replied. “Come in for seven and I’ll show you the ropes. It’ll get busy around eight.”

An hour later, full to the brim from Guinness and the best toasties he’d ever tasted — don’t tell the house-elves, they’ll be devastated — Draco wobbled home and collapsed onto his couch. _Two_ hours after that, and a small vial of Hangover Cure later, he completely disguised himself and walked back to FitzGerald’s. On the way, he stopped off at the hotel to book a room for the night, giving Marian a fairly common Irish name and paying in cash.

Sitting up at the bar in FitzGerald’s, and sipping fizzy soft drinks until he could practically burp the alphabet, Draco — in his disguise as a sales rep for a company that sold novelty mugs — observed Declan working behind the bar. He watched the older man pour pints of Guinness, ale, and various lagers, before reaching behind to push glasses under an assortment of optics and serve the drinks with various mixers. Draco paid close attention to what soft drinks accompanied the alcoholic ones — tonic went with gin, coke was usually served with Bacardi etc.

It was all basically Potions… but more fun and no Snape.

He left the pub near dinner time and headed back over to the hotel to get something to eat. Again, Draco sat up at the bar in the hotel and, this time, followed Marian’s movements as she served _her_ customers. Here he learned a little about ciders and craft beers, paying particular attention to a conversation the landlady had with some tourists about which tasted better - Irish or Scotch. Neither party mentioned Bourbon.

Draco watched and observed until closing time when he headed up to his room. He slept for a few hours before sneaking back downstairs — under a Disillusionment charm — and spending the rest of the night studying the various bottles and kegs behind the bar. Marian had an assortment of books about cocktails stashed near the till so he made copies of the pages that looked like they were opened the most — the stains and dog ears making them fairly obvious.

By late morning, he had Apparated back to Malfoy Manor and _borrowed_ the Pensieve Lucius kept locked under protective wards and ancient spells in his study. Needless to say, there would be hell to pay when the head of the family opened his safe next to discover a note detailing ways in which he could improve his security and a postscript asking said patriarch to _give Mum a kiss._

From the time he returned to An Taisce until late Friday afternoon, Draco replayed his memories over and over again until he knew the location of every drink in both bars and could probably make an Irish whiskey in his sleep.

So, with a confident swing in his step that evening, he walked into Declan’s pub at seven and was the new barman by twenty past.

* * *

Declan dropped Draco home at Maura’s request, taking care to drive along the tree-lined avenue to An Taisce through the bad weather. The snow was easing off but the ground was still covered in a white blanket which completely covered up the potholes that never seemed to be filled in. Originally, Declan had planned to drive his employee home in his beloved Toyota Hilux but their eldest son had talked his mother into handing over the keys for the day, leaving Declan to drive their other vehicle - a rather smart Mercedes E280 hearse.

Pulling up outside Draco’s small apartment, the publican turned to the young man he’d come to consider family.

“Tell me to mind my own business, Danny,” he began, as his fingers lightly tapped the steering wheel. “But do you fancy a chat?”

Draco looked down at the floor — his feet tangled up in a pile of brass reproduction handles — before closing his eyes and nodding slowly.

“Yeah.”

“Right,” Declan turned off the engine. “What’ve you got to drink?”

There were a few bottles of Ogden’s in the kitchen but Draco figured he could disguise the labels easily enough. They’d have to do.

He climbed out of the hearse, taking a moment to send a prayer to Merlin that it’d be a very long time before he’d see the inside of one again. Although, by then he’d be dead, so he wouldn’t be able to _see_ the inside… technically.

“I’ll park her up here and we’ll walk back in a bit,” Declan was shouting out the window as he reversed the hearse. “We’ll pick it up tomorrow. Let’s just hope to fuck no one dies tonight.”

Draco laughed as he let himself in the front door and made straight for the kitchen. He disguised the Firewhisky labels with a quick wave of his wand and set out one of the bottles with two crystal tumblers. His wand was back in his pocket just as Declan was walking in.

“Thanks, son,” he nodded, taking a proffered glass and sipping what he presumed was Scotch. “Fuck, that’s strong!”

Draco smiled behind his own drink and gestured for his boss to sit down on the couch.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“What Scotch is this?”

“Ogden’s,” Draco replied. “One of the smaller distilleries.”

“Hmm,” Declan licked his lips. “Must get this for the bar. Remind me tomorrow to order some, will you? Now… I’m not being nosey — it’s Maura, really — you know she worries. She… er… mentioned a young lady...”

Draco sighed heavily and sat in his favourite armchair opposite the couch. Pretending to sneeze, he cast a quick charm, watching Declan’s face relax as the older man slumped back into the cushions. Telling his boss the truth wasn’t an option but neither was talking to the wall, so the next best thing was a bewitched audience and a lot of firewhisky.

“Would you like a top up, Declan?”

“Hmm? Oh… yeah… top… up...”

Draco leaned forward to pour more firewhisky into their glasses before settling back into his seat. Declan just sat with a dreamy look on his face and drank when Draco did — if ever there was a male equivalent of Luna Lovegood — so, taking a deep breath, the young man with the weight of the world on his shoulders began:

“I’m in love with Hermione Granger, and have been since I was fifteen years of age. She’s beautiful, perfect, brave, and… fuck… her intelligence! She’s the Brightest Witch of Our Age. Not that you’d understand _that_ , Declan, but she is. She’s the only reason Potter survived, nevermind the rest of them. And I have loved her for so long but I’ve never been able to do anything about it.

“During the War, we were on opposite sides but halfway through I realised that I was — not on the losing side — but on the _wrong_ side. The _very_ wrong side. But I was too scared — too fucking chicken — to do anything about it. The day of the Final Battle — after Potter had killed _him_ — I found her in an abandoned corridor on her own. She was huddled in a corner, sobbing her heart out. I should have left but… I couldn't. I just couldn’t walk away from her. I couldn’t…”

Draco’s eyes misted over as he remembered finding Hermione, battered and bloody, in that corridor. She looked heartbroken, crying for the dead and wounded, crying for the innocence they had lost. There were no happy tears that day, so much had been taken from them all.

“I remember crouching down beside Hermione and aching to touch her. She looked so _small_ ; so fragile. Here was the brains behind the Light winning the war and she was so… so… _tiny_ . Behind all the blood and tears, she was the most beautiful vision in that moment; she was hope. She just looked at me — those dark brown eyes with the golden sparks I’d dream about — she didn’t speak but reached over and held my hand. Me. A loser. A fucking coward. She held _my_ hand, she gave _me_ comfort. Like I fucking deserved it!”

Declan was now snoring gently, his head against the back of the couch, and his mouth wide open. The whisky tumbler was almost hidden by his large hand as it balanced on his chest. Meanwhile, Draco kept pouring, and sipping.

“I told Hermione I was sorry — sorry for everything I’d ever said and done to torment her. I told her she was the light that kept me from being smothered by darkness, and… and… I begged for her forgiveness. She’s the only person I’ve ever cried in front of. Myrtle doesn’t really count now, does she? Ha, not that you’d know.

“I remember that I kept staring at her tiny hand — I couldn’t let it go. She put her wand down and sat up on her knees in front of me, putting her other hand around mine. Then she told me to look at her and I think that was the hardest thing I’ve ever been asked to do. When I did, she was crying but her face was like an angel’s; her smile was so bright, so full of… I don’t know… if this was a fucking romance novel, I’d nearly say she looked like she loved me. Who the fuck would love me? And don’t say my mother.

“I wanted to kiss her, right there. I wanted to kiss Hermione Granger and tell her I was so fucking in love with her, it was eating away at my gut. I wanted to grab hold of her and run…”

Draco threw his head back against the armchair and closed his eyes.

“Aurors arrived at that moment and hauled my sorry arse away. Cell after cell after cell, house arrest, trials in camera — I never saw her from that day… until last night. And… I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to tell her I’ve never stopped loving her. Pans was the only person who knew I’d be here but maybe I always hoped…”

He looked over at his snoring friend and smiled sadly. “Sometimes you have to run away to see who comes after you, right? Now she’s here and I’m terrified.”

Declan grunted and began to list.

“Well, there you go, Declan. It’s been no help at all telling the truth — even if it was to your sorry arse. I’m still fucked.”

Draco stood up — only wobbling a little — and made his way to the bedroom to change before returning to the small galley kitchen beside the living room. Placing two strong coffees laced with hangover remedies down on the coffee table, he Rennervated Declan and commented with a grin that Ogden’s Scotch was a bit too strong for a lightweight.

“Jesus, don’t tell Maura I fell asleep!” Declan rubbed his eyes and reached for a coffee. “Some fucking friend I am, Danny. St. Patrick’s Day always has me knackered.”

“You only dozed off a few minutes ago, Declan,” Draco assured him. “Thought I’d leave you while I changed. And… thank you… for listening. I really appreciate it.”

Declan hadn’t a clue what he was being thanked for but muttered a brief acknowledgement into his coffee mug and stood up.

“Best head back, Danny. Marian’s party will be in full swing and I’ve a date with the missus.”

* * *

By the time they left Draco’s apartment, the snow had stopped completely and was beginning to melt along the avenue. Most of the potholes were visible but it was still a perilous trek to the main road.

The two men chatted about the small town the FitzGeralds had lived in all their lives and Declan — an undertaker at heart, the pub came second — took great pride in explaining how they managed to bury Father Kennedy — Lord, rest him — during the Great Snow of ‘82.

They were blowing into their hands and looking forward to a few pints by the time they arrived at the hotel where the annual St. Patrick’s Day party was in full swing. Making their way slowly towards the packed bar, Declan announced the first round was on him and waved at his wife as she congaed past between Mary and Margaret — aka Peggy.

Moving away from the bar, the two men headed towards the hotel reception and sat down on one of the plush couches, although they could still hear the thumping music from the ballroom where the conga line was now headed. All of a sudden it stopped and a big cheer went up, followed by the muffled tones of a man speaking into a microphone. Declan looked impressed.

“What’s going on?” Draco asked.

“It’s Luke Kelly,” Declan replied. “Well known singer around these parts. Marian was hoping to get him to play tonight but she wasn’t sure if he’d make it with the weather. Maura loves him!”

“Doesn’t that make you a little jealous then?” Draco teased.

“Don’t care who pumps up the tires, Danny. I’ll be ridin’ her home.”

Remember Guinness isn’t supposed to be drunk through the nose? Well…

“Ah,” Declan closed his eyes as the crowd in the ballroom and the bar lowered their voices. “We all love this one.”

The twang of a banjo floated through the hallways before the deliberately harsh tones of Luke Kelly followed.

 _A father's pride he used to know,_  
_His mother's love was true;_  
_For emerald shores he let them go,_  
_And bid his friends adieu._

 _At first he lived each lonely day_  
_And most of life was hell;_  
_But even strangers pick you up_  
_When once they know you well._  
  
_One time he guessed he'd cease to roam,_  
_And greet his past again;_  
_And so he turned to what was home_  
_And through the window pane_  
_He saw his mother, worn and grey . . ._  
_He gazed from the garden gloom,_  
_A weeping angel, lost was she_

 _In that dark and dreary room._  
_D'ye think he hollored out: "Hullo!"_  
_The prodigal to play,_  
_And eat the fatted calf? Ah no,_  
_He cursed and ran away._  
_His eyes were blears of whisky tears_  
_As to a pub he ran:_  
_But once at least he beat the beast_  
_And proved himself a man._  
  
_Oh, someday he is going back,_  
_When he’ll have pride galore;_  
_He’ll wear a suit of sober black_  
_And knock upon the door._  
_He’ll hold his head up tall and strong,_  
_His true love by his side;_  
_This family she will reunite,_  
_This lioness with her pride._

Cheers erupted around the hotel as Luke thanked the audience and struck the chords to his next song.

Draco stared into his pint, afraid that if he spoke, he’d break down.

“Danny? You alright there?” Declan’s concern brought him back to the present.

Looking up, Draco opened his mouth to speak but no words followed. Without realising he had moved, he found himself at the end of the stairs holding his hand out to take Hermione’s as she took the last steps towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ballad of Danny O’Malley is based on the poem, Hobo, by Robert William Service (1874-1958)
> 
> Luke Kelly was a singer with the famous Irish band, The Dubliners. His distinctive voice is still loved by both young and old here, and I highly recommend listening to Raglan Road and The Auld Triangle.


	4. It's NOT a square

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for sticking with this fic. It's not updated regularly thanks to real life but, hopefully, there's only one chapter to go and I've started work on it already. 
> 
> Also, I set up a Pinterest page for the story so you can see Hermione's dress etc. It's https:// www.pinterest.ie / LaBelladoneX / harry-potter-fanfiction / emerald / - just remove the gaps.
> 
> Love always to my betas - coyg-81, In Dreams, and Noppah. May the hinges of our friendship never grow rusty.

Hermione Granger was shaking.

Draco Malfoy was no better.

Neither of them spoke but Hermione accepted Draco’s proffered hand and smiled shyly as she stopped on the second-to-last step, leaving them at the same height and just gazing at each other.

The only sounds came from Luke’s gravelled voice and Draco’s heart as it accompanied the singer’s banjo. A not-so-subtle cough from Declan caught their attention, bringing them back to the present.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

Well, this was going to be easy…

The conga line congaed past with Maura at the helm, the potential romantic scene causing her to stop abruptly and leave the rest of the line concertinaed into a heap of legs and laughter.

“Mother of Jesus, Hermione,” she gushed, her hand clutching her breast dramatically. “Aren’t you a vision!”

“She certainly is,” Draco replied quietly, his eyes not leaving Hermione’s.

As Hermione had no inclination that she’d be attending a party of any description, her hastily-packed bag only carried clean underwear and a spare top. So the dress she was now wearing — a replica of one she had admired in a magazine the week before — was conjured up with the aid of a bath towel, a small bottle of hair conditioner, and a room service menu.

The 1960s-style mini dress was white, based on a Jean-Louis Scherrer design from the June 1967 edition of British Vogue. Hermione collected the magazine as a hobby, having issues dating back to the first print run in September 1916. She had nothing else to spend her money on so British Vogue became her version of a stamp collection. Doilies from around the world were next on the list of things to hoard as she prepared for a future of loneliness and cat breeding.

Back to the dress. Being English, Hermione was reluctant to wear too much green — and look like she was trying too hard to blend in. She also needed to avoid orange at all costs, lest she be run out of Castleford, so she settled on the neutral white of the Irish flag. But what had attracted her to the outfit in the first place were the embellishments at the top of the dress — large green and silver plastic sequins spreading across from shoulder to shoulder, up the neckline, and right around the short sleeves. The material flared slightly from the waist, giving it an A-line shape with discreet pockets to hold her wand and a spare packet of tissues, and the long zip at the back was concealed at the top by the sequins followed by white beading down the full length of the material. It rested just above Hermione’s knee, allowing a glimpse of her tanned slim legs and complementary shoes.

Two bedside coasters and a couple of instant coffee sachets were now copies of Charles Jourdan 1967 square-toed slingbacks in emerald green with a white daisy-like flower in the front. The rounded heels, in both green and white, added to the quirkiness of her entire outfit — a definite improvement on the usual green tops with strategically placed shamrocks on the women or “Pat McCrotch, I’m Irish” T-shirts on the men.

But it was the Slytherin-esque sequins that caught her eye.

“Your dress…” Draco began, his hand still holding hers. “You look—”

“Oh, she does, doesn’t she?” Maura tripped over herself, reaching out to grasp Hermione’s free hand. “Come and meet Declan, love.”

Considering the man in question was about three feet away, they didn’t have to go far but Maura still insisted on pulling Hermione along. Draco reluctantly let her other hand go.

“Dec, this is Hermione,” his wife pressed conspiratorially. “She’s the one I was telling you about.”

“I figured that out all by myself, Maura,” Declan laughed, proffering his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Hermione. What’ll you have?”

“No Guinness, thank you,” Hermione smiled, “Not after last night. Em… I’ll have a Pinot Gris, please.”

“Coming up,” Declan nodded, moving towards the bar. “Maura, help me with the drinks?”

Maura’s eagle eye winked at her husband, the lack of subtlety apparent to even the drunkest of revellers. “Of course, love. Pardon us!”

After an awkwardly silent moment, Draco waved at the empty seats in front of them. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Thank you,” Hermione smiled shyly, moving forward to sit in Declan’s vacated seat.

Silence.

“Look, I owe you—”

“What are you—”

Silence. Again.

“You go first,” Draco offered, suddenly realising he was still standing in front of Hermione. He took a seat, turning his body slightly to face her.

Hermione pulled nervously at the hem of her dress, her button nose scrunching up as she grimaced.

“I really do owe you an apology for last night,” she began. “I didn’t mean to get so drunk; I hadn’t eaten, you see. And I guess I was tired from the journey, and Marian was so nice I didn’t want to say no to her. All the ladies made me so welcome. But I got so drunk. I’m—”

“Granger, stop!” Draco put up his hand. “It’s alright. You don’t need to apologise. Marian can be pretty… persuasive. Just… what are _you_ doing here?”

A deep breath was needed and a prayer to Merlin that her Gryffindor courage wouldn’t abandon her.

“I was looking for you.”

It suddenly hit him. She was going to explain that the Wizengamot had made a fatal error and his paperwork had gotten mixed up with someone else’s — some Hufflepuff that was up for not stopping to help a little old witch cross the street but, as soon as the defendant explained that he rushed past the pedestrian to rescue a drunken bowtruckle that had slipped from a tree branch, the creature-loving jury and the witch instantly forgave him and made preparations for the bowtruckle to attend rehab. As a result, Draco Malfoy was being summoned for a very public trial in which Veritaserum would be poured down his throat and the whole wizarding world would know he was madly in love with Hermione Granger, had a birthmark the shape of a Pixie Puff — before the milk is added — on his left arse cheek, and he was a wizard at the Pasodoble — Narcissa had been short a partner for classes when Draco was fourteen and he was enthusiastically volunteered by Lucius.  

“How long do I have?”

_“Pardon?”_

“How long do I have, Granger?” Draco glared, his face hardened. “I take it you’re here to drag me back, so what am I being arrested for?”

Hermione gaped. _“What?”_

“You heard me,” he sneered, anger washing over him. “Let me think… Potter is Head Auror by now, Weasel his second-in-command, running around after him like a dog in heat. You’re working with them as some… spy… so they’ve sent you to arrest me? For what? Library fines since they can’t get me on anything else?”

 _“What are you talking about?”_ The atmosphere had dropped a few degrees around them as the party continued on. “I’m… I’m a professor at Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, right. Professor at… oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ . You...” Hermione leaned forward, her eyes flashing with irritation. This was not going according to plan. “I’m the History of Magic teacher at Hogwarts. After Eighth Year, I apprenticed to Professor Binns before he passed on… eventually. _And_ , for your information, Ron lives in Sweden with a very nice girl called Brigitte. He works for the Swedish Ministry as a liaison to our own Department of Magical Games and Sports. _Harry_ is the only one of us who decided to work for the D.M.L.E. and, yes, he’s Head Auror. So at least you got one thing right, _Malfoy_.”

Draco blanched. “Don’t… please. That’s not who I am here.”

The look of panic on his face surprised Hermione. She sat back, frowning.

“I don’t understand—”

Draco stood. “We can’t talk here. Do you have a jacket with you?”

“I don’t need one,” she replied, standing up and marching towards the door as her inner lioness took command. Draco followed, sighing heavily. _Here we go…_

* * *

It was bedlam behind the bar, taking longer than usual to order the drinks. Declan didn’t mind as he was immediately sucked into a conversation with two elderly farmers about silage. Maura, on the other hand, was practically chomping at the bit to get back to the lovebirds. She fancied herself a bit of a matchmaker and Danny O’Malley was going to be her first client — whether he wanted to be or not.

At last, two pints of Guinness, a Bailey’s Irish Cream, and a Pinot Gris were handed over. Grabbing the two smaller glasses, Maura abandoned her husband and turned away from the bar, only to see Draco and Hermione heading out the main door.  

“Sweet fucking Jesus!” She cursed, balancing the tumbler and white wine glass as best she could in one hand whilst fumbling in her pocket for her phone with the other.

“Ah, there yeh are, Maura!” Scallion O’Hara’s missus was barrelling her way through the crowd, a look of determination on her over made-up face. By now, word had travelled around The Square — _shh!_ —  that there was an _English_ visitor to Castleford who had the eye of one particularly fine barman.

“Can’t stop, em…” Maura gasped, waving her phone in the air. “Emergency… coffin lid… wrong engraving… Francis instead of Frances, haha! Catch up with you later… em… bye!”

For the life of her, Maura could not remember the name of Scallion O’Hara’s missus. Come to think of it, what the fuck was Scallion O’Hara’s real name?

“Oh, who bloody cares!” She mumbled as she opened up WhatsApp. By now, Maura was wearing half the Bailey’s Irish Cream and the Pinot Gris but this was a lot more important. Thanks to the art of typing with a well-practised thumb, she sent out a single-worded group text and made her way back to the reception.

_Overwatch._

(She read all of her eldest son’s comics, and had a bit of a soft spot for the actor who played The Green Arrow — no, not _that_ one. The other one.)

Meanwhile…

Marian’s phone buzzed beside the cash register. Glancing at the screen, she practically threw a packet of crisps at The Brush Cassidy’s grandson and dashed out from behind the bar.

Marie (Mah-ree) and Marie (Mar-ee) were in the ballroom, singing along to Luke Kelly’s unique version of Livin’ Next Door to Alice — twenty four years, man, get a fucking life — when their phones pinged simultaneously. Eyeing the notifications, they jumped up from their seats — and over their husbands — to get to the emergency exit. From where they were seated, it would be quicker to run out the back doors, across the patio — where the wedding photos were usually taken — down by the smoking area, collect Mary on the way because she was always out there, and head back into the main reception.

Dashing through the smoking section, they found Mary rooting in her ever-expanding bag.

“I’m sure I heard my phone,” she commented before being manhandled away by her friends.

 _“Overwatch,”_ Marie (Mar-ee) spat.

“Bollocks!” Mary threw away her fag and joined the chase.

Maureen, who was also working behind the bar, was changing a keg when her phone beeped in her back pocket. Checking the screen, she threw the keg connector onto the cellar floor and took the stairs two at a time.

“Stella Artois is off!” She shouted at the other bar staff as she followed Marian’s footsteps.

Margaret — aka Peggy — was most unfortunate, having just sat down for a wee after fumbling with the gusset fasteners on her all-in-one for about five agonising minutes. _Thank Christ for pelvic floor exercises!_ The long extended sigh of pure relief was interrupted by (a) the sound of her phone pinging, and (b) one of the Kennedy twins crying against the condom machine — Ireland can be quite modern… sometimes — that ‘ _he_ was only a _prick_ who only wanted a fuckin’ ride only when it suited him.’ Now, normally, Margaret — aka Peggy — would have remained in the seated position to tune in for more, but the identity of the aforementioned prick would have to wait for another time as the message on her phone’s screen indicated a _situation_.

Needless to say, she forgot to close up her gusset as she dashed out of the cubicle. She also forgot to flush, grabbing a semi-used tissue from her pocket to wipe her hands.

Needs must.

The seven women gathered at reception, ready.

Marian grabbed three sets of keys, chucking one each at Maureen and Maura. “Plan A, women!”

Nothing more needed to be said. They knew what they had to do.

Dashing up the stairs, they separated at the top with Marian, Marie (Mah-ree), and Marie (Mar-ee) turning left and the others heading right.

Shoving the key into the lock of room one — the hotel’s executive suite — Marian held the door open for her companions to pile in behind her. They immediately took up their positions at each of the three windows overlooking The… _you know what_ … and waited.

Meanwhile, Mary and Maureen headed towards room three and assumed the position in front of the two smaller windows. Maura and Margaret — aka Peggy — were next door in room five, also standing by.

It must be noted that the whole Overwatch exercise was well-practised, the women having codes for Plans A, B, C, _and_ D. They were currently using Plan A, meaning the relevant hotel rooms were currently empty. Plans B and C referred to whatever rooms were available, i.e. not occupied by inconvenient guests, and they just took turns at the windows. As for Plan D, that was the emergency option when all rooms were occupied. It had only been used once, when the seven of them threw on aprons and pretended to be housekeeping staff, dusting around the rooms’ occupants and keeping an eye on what was going on outside.

The exercise took three minutes and twenty-seven seconds, a full ten seconds off the previous record when Marie (Mar-ee) was sure she had spotted Scallion O’Hara’s missus throwing the leg over someone who wasn’t Scallion — this one had hair — in front of the Protestant church. But it turned out she was just having a piss beside one of the Reverend’s prize topiary bushes.

So, with a new record under their belts or, in Margaret’s — aka Peggy’s — case, her unfastened all-in-one, the seven friends peered out the seven windows at the front of the hotel overlooking The… _whatever!_

* * *

Whilst all the Mission Impossible shenanigans was going on behind them, Draco and Hermione walked towards the centre of… the green area. Hermione sat down on one of the wooden benches near the water feature with the deformed bronze statues that were supposed to be swans. After a moment, Draco sat beside her and wandlessly cast a warming charm over them both.

“I don’t understand why you’re looking for me. It must be good if Pansy gave up my address.”

Hermione fiddled with her dress again, nervously pulling at the hem.

“When you were arrested, I had already decided to… I wanted…” Hermione took a deep breath and tried again. “They wouldn’t let me near you after they dragged you away. I tried everything! I went straight from Harry to Kingsley himself and demanded to see you but I was told it wasn’t protocol and I’d have to wait until the trial was over. Because of who you were, the red tape surrounding your file was unbreakable and there were no loopholes. Believe me, I looked for them! I could get as far as the main door to the holding cells and no further. You were only a few feet away and I couldn’t...”

Draco didn’t understand where she was heading with this. He had thought — _hoped_ — there was something between them the day of the Final Battle but time was against them back then.

Hermione continued on.

“I found out by accident that your trial had been held in camera and that you were free. So, I plucked up the courage and turned up at Malfoy Manor—”

Draco nearly choked. “You-you went back?”

She turned to look directly at him. “Yes. But you were gone. A house-elf told me.”

He couldn’t find any words to reply.

“I went straight to Pansy. If there was anyone who’d know where you went, it’d be her. I knew by her behaviour that she was keeping something from me so when I challenged her about being your Secret Keeper, she admitted she was.” Hermione laughed quietly, as if remembering something funny. “She is one stubborn witch, Pansy Parkinson. I tried everything to get her to tell me where you were but she was determined to take your secret to the grave. The only thing I didn’t try was torture, but I tried blackmail and bribery.” She looked up at Draco’s bewildered expression and smiled sadly. “It seems I’m not Slytherin enough to get blackmail or bribery right.”

“So how did Pansy eventually give up the secret?” Draco asked quietly, his eyes focused on hers.

_Merlin, she’s more beautiful than I remember. Why the fuck did I leave her behind?_

“Would you believe it was Harry that helped?”

 _“Potter?”_ Draco came back to the present with a bang. “How the fuck—”

“They’re together now,” she answered. “Harry met Pansy at work and they… hit it off. When he had to go away, she realised how she felt about him and relented. Needless to say, she wasn’t happy about it.”

“About which? Being with Potter? Or telling my secret?”

Hermione laughed out loud, the sound awakening a herd of hippogriffs in Draco’s stomach.

“Both, I think, but the shock of falling in love was enough. She thinks it’s made her weak.”

It was Draco’s turn to laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like Pansy.” His face became serious all too quickly. “And Potter?”

“Head over heels,” Hermione confirmed. “You don’t need to worry about Pansy. Harry’s in this for the long haul.”

Draco seemed appeased for the moment. “She’s the best friend anyone could ask for. But how did my secret come into this?”

Hermione blushed and stood up, drawing her bare arms around her body.

“Do you remember what happened after... when you found me?”

Draco’s eyes swept along the gravel at his feet.

“I’ll never forget,” he answered quietly, his head hanging low.

* * *

“What do you think she’s saying?” Margaret — aka Peggy — whispered.

“Mary’s the best at lip reading,” Maura replied. “But I know this: they can’t hear us up here, Peg.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Right.”

“And Peg?”

“What?”

“Your gusset’s showing.”

* * *

Draco leaned back on the bench, running his hands over his face. Hermione stood still in front of him, watching the last clusters of snow by her shoes melt rapidly under the warming charm.

He took a deep breath. What to do? To _say?_ Would she run a mile if he told… ah, _fuck it!_ What’s the worst that could happen? She’d return to Hogwarts and he could remain hidden forever in Castleford. He’d get a dog… and take up set dancing with Mary and Margaret. What did they call her again? Oh, yeah. Peggy. That’s what he’d do.

Set dancing.

“Do you want the truth, Hermione? Do you want to know why I looked for you?”

“Yes,” she whispered, her breath catching as he spoke her name.

“I know we were at the beginning of a friendship in school; I’ll never forget the day you asked me to take part in that potions assignment with you after Weasley fainted. I don’t know if you remember me stepping over his body to join you—”

Hermione smiled, her eyes sparkling. “Of course, I remember. You broke his little finger when you stood on it.”

Draco grinned. “Well, yeah. Good for me.”

He leaned forward on his elbows, eyes focusing on Hermione’s dainty shoes. Merlin, her outfit was spectacular! She was glorious! How the fuck could he let her go back?

“Those days spent studying with you were wonderful; I felt accepted. For once in my life, I felt different… liked. I could actually speak to Potter without my wand hand twitching and you were beginning to show me that we were… well... I was wrong — very, very wrong — about… everything — Muggle-borns, house-elves… Hufflepuffs even!”

He looked up and she felt his eyes boring into her very soul. His gaze took her breath away.

“Then I… I began to feel differently about that certain Gryffindor who’d completely turned my world upside down.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” he stood up, taking a step towards her. “A guardian angel comes into your life and makes you realise that everything you were taught is shit. _Everything_. She challenges your mind and you realise that you have to start again — to pick up the pieces of your life and start again. It’s a terrifying concept but you do it. For her. And you fall in love with her because she makes you a better person inside. You love her with every fibre of your being, every inch of your soul.”

Draco stood right in front of her now. Mesmerized by his words, Hermione hadn’t noticed him moving. She could only try to remember how to breathe.

“I don’t know if Pansy explained to you how the hierarchy in Slytherin worked, or the pure-blood way of life, but we weren’t brought up to love and… fit in. I was so jealous of the friendship you had with Potter and Weasley, even though we were all getting on — well, I wouldn’t _really_ count Weasley there. I know I had Pans but she was just as messed up, you know? As for Crabbe and Goyle — they weren’t friends; they behaved with me the same way their fathers acted around mine. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I really wanted to be your friend so I took the beginning of that friendship and I held it so fucking tight. Until it changed into something I didn’t think I deserved.

“I wanted to grab hold of you after the Final Battle and run — anywhere! Just anywhere. If the Aurors hadn’t arrived, I would have poured my heart and soul out to you. I love you, Hermione Granger. And — I don’t know if you’ll believe this or not — but, after my trial, I was sure I was doing the right thing by walking away and letting you have the happy life you deserve.”

He reached forward and gently took hold of Hermione’s hands, leaning down to place his forehead against hers. “And now you know how I feel about you.”

Hermione was speechless for a moment.

He loved her; he had spoken the words she had prayed to hear.

Draco loved her; he thought he was doing the right thing by walking away from her.

Draco Malfoy loved her.

Well, who the _fuck_ did he think he was by thinking that leaving was the right thing to do?

Please welcome to the stage, one fiery lioness. Gryffindor style.

She shoved him away, causing Draco to stumble backwards and seven breaths to catch in three hotel bedrooms.

“You love me? Do you?”

Confusion spread across Draco’s face. “I’ve just told you.”

“So that’s supposed to make it alright, is it?”

Hands were on hips now.

“I-I don’t—”

“Did you, Draco Malfoy, not think for one moment that maybe, _just maybe_ , I would have _liked_ for you to take me away? Were you so wrapped up in your—” she lowered her voice down a few octaves and slumped her shoulders “—‘oh, woe is me, no one understands my pain, I’ll just remain gorgeously aloof and misunderstood’ _shite_ , that you never bothered to consider that _MAYBE_ I was in love with you too?”

He smirked. “You think I’m gorgeous.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

Hermione threw up her hands, pacing in front of the misproportioned water feature. “Why didn’t you say anything? I’ve been a plague on Pansy’s heartstrings for Merlin knows how long! We could have _talked_ , Draco. Like real people. But, nooooooo, you had to go all Heathcliff, didn’t you? Well, for your information, we’re not out on the wiley, windy moors—” she waved her arms around for effect “—so you can take your unrequited love and shove it up your arse because it would have been... em… requited.”

“For your information, I think you’re beautiful.”

“AARRGGHH! I give up!”

She turned on her heel, ready to flounce off back to the hotel.

Seeker reflexes grasped hold of her arm, swinging Hermione around to him. He let her go, only to cup her face in his hands and caress her cheeks tenderly with his thumbs. His silver eyes shone in the moonlight, alive with passion.

“Hermione—”

“Do you know why this bloody place is called The Square?” She spoke quickly, a tremor in her voice. “It’s seriously irritating, isn’t it? I mean, it’s more like a rectangle. Although, looking at it closely, I’m thinking that it’s shaped more along the lines of a trapezium. Don’t you—”

_“Hermione!”_

“Wh-what?”

Draco lowered his head, brushing his lips softly against her own.

“Shut the fuck up.”


	5. In which Danny shifts “yer wan with the hair”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coyg-81, In Dreams, and Noppoh - there are no words. You guys truly are the best alpha/beta team EVER!

 

Hermione Granger was stunned.

She _wanted_ to say her piece — not about The... _whatever-the-fuck-shape-it-was_ — but how frustrated she felt that Draco had walked away, leaving her to live a miserable, lonely existence in Hogwarts with only fellow professors and a couple of hundred students to keep her from going insane.

Okay, there was Professor Grey and his soft spot but he didn’t even register on her potential life-partner radar. He was nearly 31, and went everywhere on a bloody skateboard, for fuck’s sake! _And_ he’d developed that beach bum look since last summer. Not to mention his receding hairline.

No. She didn’t want anyone but Draco Malfoy.

Not since that day.

When the Aurors dragged him out of her life.

Bastards. Do-gooding _bastards._ “Oh, look at us! We see the world in black and white, good versus evil, Coke or Pepsi, Lennon or McCartney, no shades of grey here. You can’t choose Ringo or George, it’s not allowed! _Oh, no!_ Draco Malfoy is the Devil Incarnate, with horns and a tail, stirring cauldrons in his spare time — oh, wait—”

“When I told you to shut the fuck up, Hermione, I meant that brain of yours as well.”

She blinked. “Oh, em…”

Draco smiled, his hands still cupping her face, the softest lips caressing her own like feathers as he spoke.

“Let me kiss you. The way I’ve wanted to for a long, long time.”

“Y-yes, please.”

He opened his mouth a little wider, letting his tongue flick against her lower lip. Hermione instantly responded, moaning quietly as Draco continued to tease her with soft kisses and gentle licks.

“Draco…” she sighed, her hands gripping his upper arms for fear he’d float away.

“Gods, Hermione, I love you,” he sighed against her lips, as if breathing the words into her would keep her alive. “I’m so sorry I left. I—”

“Shh…” Hermione pulled away from his embrace, reaching up to take his hands and gaze at those silver-grey eyes she’d committed to memory. “I love you, Draco. I’ve loved you for so long, my heart ached for you every day. I can’t remember a night where I didn’t cry myself to sleep—”

He looked down at her, searching for the truth behind her words, his heart breaking at the tears pricking her long, sooty eyelashes.

Draco pulled her hands up to fold them around the back of his neck. He brought his to rest on her slender hips, his eyes never leaving hers, pure emotion almost blurring his sight as well.

They stood as close together in that moment as they possibly could, their feelings — admitted at last — overwhelming them.

(Although the scene was muted due to the closed hotel windows — and only one of them being able to lip read — Marian, Marie (Mah-ree), Marie (Mar-ee), Mary, Maureen, Maura, and Margaret — aka Peggy — were moved to tears by the romantic scene across the road. Luckily, Marion had a packet of tissues in her pocket. Margaret — aka Peggy — made do with a spare roll of toilet paper.)

“I’d have given anything to be with you, Hermione,” he whispered. “But I… I thought... _Fuck!_ I can’t…”

Draco pulled away, wiping his eyes as he turned his back and dropped down onto the bench.

“I’ve only ever wanted you,” he continued, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. “What have I put you through?”

Hermione knelt down, the freezing ground cutting into her bare knees. She gently tugged at his arms, quietly whispering for him to look at her.

His eyes were brimming with tears.

“For once, I thought I was doing the honourable thing,” he lamented. “I was no good for you — my history, my family. What could I have given you? I really tried to make the right choice, I swear.”

For all his bravado and quirky comments earlier, and the cockiness with which he first kissed her, Draco was as lost as Hermione.

She smiled, her hands gripping his tightly. “I’m here now, Draco. And, if you’ll have me, I want to stay.”

Standing up, Hermione motioning for him to join her and — summoning all that courage those bloody Gryffindors were so revered for — she reached up on her toes to whisper quietly in his ear.

“Come back, Draco Malfoy. Let’s put it all behind us because... I love you and, right now—” she paused for effect “—I want you.”

He closed his eyes, wrapping her tightly in his arms, letting her words melt into his very soul.

“Circe, there’s nothing I want more than to—” he broke off.

“Tell me,” she breathed.

Draco took a deep breath, silently thanking the Powers That Be for giving him this chance with her. He could do this. Turning his head to bury his face in her flowing curls, his voice turned to silk.  

“Do you want the Gryffindor answer, my dear, or… the Slytherin one?”

Aaaaaand the real Draco Malfoy was back!

Hermione’s heart pounded at the sultry tones teasing her skin, her spine alive with tingles from the pronunciation of his former house.

“Gr-Gryffindor.”

Draco grinned into her curls; how predictable of his lioness.

“Hermione Granger, there’s nothing I’d like more than to stand with you in front of my fireplace so I can watch the reflection of the flames flicker in those stunning eyes. Then… very slowly… I’ll peel that beautiful dress from your shoulders, kissing your blushing skin as it’s revealed to my lips. My fingers will caress and tease you as I’ll kneel down to remove your shoes, licking my way back up those sinfully long legs to peel away your underwear, which I’m sure is pure virginal white lace—” Hermione gasped; was she really _that_ predictable? “—before laying you down on the sheepskin rug so I can kiss your breasts, teasing you while your hardened nipples yearn for my tongue. And then — while my tongue is busy — my fingers will be bringing you to the edge over and over again until you’re crying my name and begging me to make love to you deeply and passionately.”

“Draco,” she sighed, her body trembling with the thoughts of him touching her, holding her, moving within her. “Please…”

“Oh, love, don’t you want to hear the Slytherin option?”

Those virginal white knickers were getting quite dirty.

“Oh, God! Draco…”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he replied, his hands moving to cup the back of her head. He tilted her slightly, his tongue licking the skin below her ear.

“We wouldn’t make it to the fireplace. You wouldn’t be lovingly undressed; you’d be ripped out of that delectable outfit, those Slytherin-coloured discs flying in every direction as I tear your virginal lace from your skin. I’d have you up against my front door, your legs around me as I take the breath from your lungs, sucking your screaming orgasm into my mouth. And, when I’m finished fucking you upright, you’ll be on your knees, cleaning yourself from my cock with your tongue.”

Draco moved back, his darkened stare rendering Hermione speechless. She could only gasp as he lowered his head.

His lips captured hers, tenderly at first but moving with intensity until they were panting from the sheer passion sparking between them.

“There’s no one around.” Hermione grazed her cheek against his, her fingers threading through the fine hair at the nape of his neck. “Can you Apparate us—”

She felt him smile, his voice in her ear sending tremors cascading down her spine again. “I wish, but we’re not alone.”

Hermione froze. “Wh-what?”

“It’s okay, I’ll protect you,” Draco whispered. “They’re not dangerous.”

“Are… are they friendly?”

What the fuck Hermione was imagining, no one will ever know!

“Oh, I’d say so.”

“What will do we do?”

“For now, we stay calm. They’re only watching.”

“How many?” Hermione’s hand slipped down into her pocket, ready to whip out her wand and stupefy the shit out of whoever — or whatever — had just ruined her damp knicker moment.

“Seven.”

“Okay… what do you want to do?”

This was his territory; he knew the lie of the land. Hermione’s brilliant mind went straight to battle mode as she waited for his commands.

“We’ll have to approach them and initiate contact. They’re curious creatures, it’d be best to appease them.”

“You know them?”

“Quite well,” Draco grinned, relaxing his arms and stepping back. “If you look over to your left — very carefully — you’ll spot them in their natural habitat.”

Hermione took a breath, her heart pounding again — unfortunately, not from burning passion this time — and moved her eyes leftwards, tilting her head slightly. There, in the seven front windows of the hotel, were seven enthralled faces. One was obscured by — what looked like — a tissue. Hermione couldn’t tell from the distance.

“Wh-what the…” she hissed.

Draco folded his arms, trying to keep in the laughter.

“May I present Marian, Marie (Mah-ree), Marie (Mar-ee), Mary, Maureen, Maura, and Margaret — although everyone calls her Peggy. I believe they were your drinking companions last night? They are more clued into what’s going on in Castleford than the local sargeant, with their Overwatch group.”

Hermione could only gape. There were no words.

“I’ll explain all about it later,” Draco promised. “Maura gets very chatty with a few Bailey’s under her belt. In the meantime—” he reached out for Hermione’s hand, pulling her closer “—I believe you were making a choice?”

“Well,” Hermione mused. “As you know, I’m all for house unity. Could we combine the options?”

“How very diplomatic, Miss Granger. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

* * *

The couple headed back towards the hotel arm-in-arm. As they walked across the road, Hermione leaned her head onto Draco’s shoulder and he instantly kissed her curls.

“Oh, Holy Divine Jesus,” sniffed Maura, rifling through her pockets. “Where’s me tissues?”

Margaret — aka Peggy — handed over her toilet roll.

* * *

Declan was the first to see Hermione and Draco walk back into the hotel lobby, passing by the main entrance on his way to the toilet.

“I drank _my_ pint,” he quipped, raising an eyebrow at his barman. “Then I drank yours.”

Draco attempted to look sheepish for a moment, until he pulled Hermione even closer to him.

“Yeah, Dec. Sorry, not sorry.”

Declan laughed. “Tool! Get’s another and we’re even.” He turned to Hermione, smiling warmly. “Maura disappeared with your drink, Hermione. God knows where she is.”

“I’ll get a round in,” Draco offered. “See you at the bar?”

“What’s this?” Declan grasped Hermione’s arm. “Danny O’Malley’s actually buying a round? Jesus!”

“Fuck off,” Draco laughed. “What do you expect, and me on a poor barman’s wages?”

Eh, two words: Malfoy. Fortune.

Hermione could only watch the exchange like a tennis fan as Declan clapped Draco on the shoulder and headed off.

“Shall we?” Draco asked, nodding his head towards the bar.

“Yes, please,” Hermione replied, moving with him. “I could do with a drink.”

When they reached the bar, most of the crowd had moved out to the ballroom for the disco and finger food. It was quiet enough for Draco and Hermione to find a small booth and sit with their drinks.

“I have so many questions for you,” Hermione commented. “I don’t know where to begin!”

Draco took a few mouthfuls from his pint before answering.

One never sips Guinness; it’s simply not done, you know. Hermione really did have a lot to learn.

“I don’t want to sound rude,” he replied, his finger tracing a drop of condensation down the pint glass, “and I’m not cutting you off, but... I was thinking that the questions and answers round could wait until tomorrow. Over breakfast?”

Those knickers had no life left in them at all.

“I-I think… em… that’s probably a very good idea, Dr-Danny,” she stuttered as Declan returned to join them.

* * *

The Secret Seven regrouped on the landing outside the hotel bedrooms. Maureen was the last to arrive, having taken a few minutes to rifle through the hotel guest’s bedside drawer. There wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before — a complementary guide to the local fishing hotspots, Werther's Original (the hard ones), a denture box (ah, no chewy toffees so), a large tub of coconut oil (great for dry skin), and a butt plug. And… em… well, they say coconut oil is very versatile.

“I think the mission went off successfully,” Overwatch Leader Marian announced.

Various forms of affirmation were reported back.

“Do you think we were seen?” Margaret — aka Peggy — asked, fidgeting with her gusset.

“Not a chance,” Maura piped up. “We have this nailed!”

They trooped back downstairs, all seven wearing expressions of pure innocence and virtue.

The guest in room three waited a few minutes before stepping out of the bathroom, puzzled as to why the housekeeping staff were pottering about this late.

* * *

Draco and Hermione stayed for two rounds with Declan, and a rather stained Maura, before making their excuses. The older woman hugged them like they were family which brought a tear to Hermione’s eye, watching Maura fuss over Draco like a mother hen. The couple really did think highly of him; what a pity it wasn’t like that at home.

Home.

Hogwarts? Maybe. Grimmauld Place? No. The Burrow? Not really. Here?

It could be.

With this bunch of green-haired Guinness-drinking mad misfits, their families, and their love of the dramatic?

And Draco Malfoy — aka Danny O’Malley.

Most definitely.

Although, if he’d upped sticks and escaped to Nepal, she’d probably be sitting cross-legged in some monastery halfway up a mountain and chanting “Tyahām̐ ghara jastai kunai ṭhā'um̐ chaina” — in her best Nepali — by now.

Yeah, there’s no place like home.

And, right now, she was looking at it… eh… him.

As they made their way to the exit, Marian passed by collecting empty glasses. She put her arm around Hermione’s shoulders and drew the young woman near.

“I take it you won’t be requiring your turn down service this evening?” She whispered, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

Hermione’s cheeks flushed as she tried to splutter out a response.

“I’ll see you for breakfast, love,” her hostess quipped, winking. “And not too early, I’m sure.”

Walking out the front door — eventually — Draco was called back by The Shovel Dunne, so named as he worked for the local council and considered leaning on said implement a fine art. Hermione had already stepped outside into the cooler air.

“Here, Danny, was that you outside shiftin’ yer wan with the hair? Jaysus, you’re some bollocks, aren’t ya? Wha?”

Draco turned back, letting the door close behind him, and strode purposefully back to the bar stool where The Shovel was perched. Although, considering the fucker was disgustingly fat — due to the lack of work ethic and his penchant for Marian’s full Irish breakfasts — he wasn’t so much sitting but rather impersonating a gerbil squatting on a thumb tack.

Declan, Maura, and Marian looked on with interest. They couldn’t stand the greasy prick, especially since he smacked Maureen on the arse one evening and she’d planted him. It was a bit of luck she’d just finished those self-defence classes they’d held in the parish hall when the bingo was cancelled.

 _“Yer wan,”_ Draco repeated, in a fairly acceptable Irish accent, “happens to be my girlfriend so, if I were you, I’d be a lot more respectful in future. Am I clear? _Shovel?”_

Marian and Maura exchanged oh-Sweet-Jesus-that’s-fucking-hot looks. Declan nodded in approval.

“He’s a grand lad,” he commented to his wife, but she was too busy getting her tyres pumped up by Danny O’Malley. It didn’t matter though, Declan was still going to ride her home.

The Shovel didn’t get a chance to reply as Draco instantly turned on his heel and marched out the door, completely missing the sigh that escaped both Marian and Maura.

Declan smirked, rubbing his hands. This was turning out to be a very successful night.

Marian was wondering if she needed fresh batteries.

* * *

Hermione was standing outside, her arms wrapped around herself to stay warm. It never dawned on her to cast a warming charm as she waited; she had other things on her mind.

Draco instantly gathered her in his arms when he arrived, kissing the top of her head and whispering the much-needed comforting words.

“Thank you,” she smiled, enjoying the heat enveloping her.

“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Although how The Brightest Witch of Our Age forgot to cast a simple warming charm, I just don’t know.”

“She might be a little preoccupied.”

“Really? And why would that be?”

Hermione tilted her head up so he’d hear her.

“I’m more interested in being warmed by your fireplace.”

Draco said nothing, taking her hand in his and walking around the side of the hotel where the deliveries were usually dropped off. He made his way to the darkest corner and, pulling Hermione close to him, Apparated them to his living room.

It was dark but, within seconds, the curtains were closed, soft lights flickered, and the fire lit up the room.

“Can I get you a drink?” He didn’t let her go as he asked. “There’s only Ogden’s and coffee.”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Maybe later.”

“Then what would you like to do now, Hermione?”

“I’d like the Gryffindor welcome, if it’s still available.”

Draco raised his fingers to tenderly caress her cheek.

“As they say here,” he whispered, “I’ll give you a hundred thousand welcomes.”

Hermione could hardly stand, weak from the visions flooding through her mind of what he’d described previously.

“Shall I begin?”

She could only nod, her heart pounding, his eyes searching hers.

Draco’s fingers traced her jawline, sliding down her neck and around to the back of her dress.

“Tell me about your dress,” he purred, the discs glinting in the firelight as he played with them. “The colours are quite… distinctive.”

“It-it’s a copy of a J-Jean-Louis Scherrer dress from 1967.”

Draco began to pull the zip down, agonizingly slowly.

“Continue.”

“I saw it in a copy of Vogue. I-I have all the back issues; it’s a hobby.”

The sound of the zip descending, and the gentlest touch from the tip of Draco’s finger against her skin, had Hermione reaching out to steady herself against him.

“A copy? Why not the original?”

“I was outbid online.”

The zip had reached its final destination.

“Hmm… and why this particular dress?” Draco mused, waiting for her to admit the truth.

Hermione moved her hands away, allowing him to pull the dress carefully from her shoulders.

“You know why,” she answered.

“I want to hear _you_ say the words, Hermione.”

She took a breath, her skin on fire where he was touching her.

“For your house; the dress is for Slytherin. For you.”

“Well, we’d better take care of it then,” he smiled, leaning forward to kiss from her neck to her newly exposed shoulder. “Unless it turns back into a pumpkin at midnight?”

“A bath towel, hair conditioner, and a room service menu,” she moaned, his teeth teasing her collarbone. Thank Merlin her bra was strapless! “My shoes—”

Draco stood back, leaving goosebumps on her skin. “Ah, ah, we haven’t gotten that far yet.”

He freed Hermione’s arms from the dress and held her hand as she stepped out of it, leaving her standing in the predictable virginal white lace, and the shoes.

All he did was raise an eyebrow as he laid her dress across the armchair.

“Don’t judge me,” she fired at him. “If I’d worn coloured underwear, it would’ve been seen under my dress.”

“I’m saying nothing,” he grinned, his hands up in surrender, “except that virginal white looks positively sinful on you.”

To prove his point, Draco grabbed her, pulling Hermione forward and kissing her deeply. His tongue slid along her lower lip, dipping into her mouth to toy with her own. She raised her arms to wrap around his neck, pulling herself closer to his body, as if she could melt through his shirt.

“Hermione,” he gasped, his hands roaming along her back, flicking open her bra with ease. “My witch…”

She groaned when he pulled away the material, dropping it onto the chair, his hands resting on her covered hips momentarily before making their way slowly upwards.

The kiss never stopped, as if they would die if they couldn’t continue to touch, to taste.

Draco’s thumbs skimmed under Hermione’s breasts dragging a sigh from her mouth that went straight to his groin. He moaned, trying not to think about his discomfort but rather of the witch he loved desperately kissing him with just as much passion and emotion as he felt in that moment. He was the luckiest bastard—

No. No, he wasn’t. He’d put her through hell. What sort of a—

He pulled back abruptly, turning to face the fire. Closing his eyes tightly to ride out the wave of self-loathing that threatened to drown him, Draco ran his shaking hands through his hair.

That left a semi-naked Hermione behind him, her pulse racing.

“Draco?”

“Please—” he began. “Hermione, forgive me.”

For the longest, most terrifying moment of her life — and, considering what they’d all suffered, that was significant — Hermione thought he’d changed his mind about her. She instantly tried to cover her nakedness with her arms.

“Wh-what for?” She stammered, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Draco turned around, his eyes shining with tears. “I need your forgiveness, for what I did in my past. For leaving you. For not telling you sooner just how much I love you. For putting you—”

Hermione found an inner strength even she didn’t realise she possessed.

“Draco Malfoy, I love you.” She stepped in front of him, resting her hands on his cheeks and taking her turn to wipe his stray tears away. “I understand why you did everything you did. Somewhere in there is a noble soul, who probably would have lived a tortured life truly believing he deserved to be alone.” She smiled warmly, laughing before speaking again. “But this stubborn witch loves him too much and won’t let that happen. So, listen to me, you arse. You have my forgiveness… you have me.”

For a moment, they just stared, hearts pounding and emotions raging.

“Hermione…” he whispered. “I don’t think I deserve—”

She reached out to begin undoing the buttons on his shirt, watching his heavy breathing strain the material. “How about you show me that Slytherin welcome instead?”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “You are something else, Hermione Granger.”

“Yes, I am,” she grinned, opening his shirt so she could rest her bared skin against him. Their first touch took their breaths.

“You do realise I’ll never let you go, don’t you?” He tore his shirt away, not caring where it ended up.

Hermione’s knickers practically fell off from the weight.

She began to kiss his exposed skin, tender flicks of her tongue setting his nerves on edge as she slowly lowered herself onto her knees. “Promise?”

Draco groaned, burying his hands in her hair as Hermione pulled his belt open and undid his jeans. She gripped the waistband, pulling the denims down to expose his weeping erection.

She licked her lips greedily. “Commando?” She quipped, looking up at his flushed face.

“Occasionally. You should try it.”

Hermione wrapped her hand around him, running her tongue along his length and sucking the precum dripping onto her skin.

“I have a feeling I’ll be doing it quite often.”

“Witch, you have no idea. Now—”

“Excuse me, Draco. I’m busy,” she ordered, kissing down to his tight curls. “Wait your turn.”

Draco closed his eyes. She’d be the death of him. But, Merlin, he’d welcome it.

Hermione continued to lick and tease, her hand moving in time with her mouth, taking Draco deeper and deeper until her nose brushed against him. He was perfect — wider rather than long, smooth, rock hard, and absolutely gorgeous to taste. Whatever bathroom products he used were aromatic, almost spicy, making her thirst for more.

He cried out, begging her to stop but she was insatiable, waving her hand to send his jeans over to the armchair. She gripped his hips as he held her head, trying to gently pull her away but Hermione was having none of it. She swatted his arse, making him laugh whilst continuing to suck his cock, her tongue sliding around the head and slit.

All too soon, Draco shuddered, gasping as he felt his orgasm approaching. “Hermione,” he panted, “I’m going—”

She pulled away, sitting back on her heels, her hands on her lap.

He instantly grabbed his erection, fist pumping the slick skin. “Are you sure?” His voice was hoarse with need.

Hermione nodded and opened her mouth.

Draco spurted into her mouth briefly before aiming for her breasts. The thoughts of licking himself from her nipples had him shaking with desire as Hermione moaned, swallowing him and reaching to swipe a finger across her covered breasts.

“No,” he ordered, falling to his knees. “That’s for me. Lie back.”

She did as she was told, like a good little lioness. Draco slid her shoes off, placing them beside the armchair and raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Two coasters and some sachets of instant coffee.”

“I approve,” he acknowledged, lifting a leg to kiss the arch of her foot. As promised, he kissed and licked his way along her soft skin. Once he reached her knee, he changed to the other foot to begin the process over again.

Hermione’s hands were aching to touch her breasts, to glide her fingers across his cooling seed. She gripped the deep sheepskin rug and gasped when his tongue hit the tender spot behind her knee.

“Please… Draco,” she begged. “Please...”

He smirked, letting her leg rest on the floor and crawling over her to quickly kiss her lips.

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

Her chest was heaving, glistening in the firelight.

“Please…”

He lowered his head to her skin, licking his come from each breast, savouring the flavour as it mixed with her own rosy bouquet. His tongue gathered the moisture, holding it until he reached her lips. She opened for him, allowing him to share his essence with her as he kissed her deeply. All Hermione could do was moan and squirm beneath him.

“My turn,” he whispered against her, moving down her body with his tongue and lips, ensuring he gave her just as much attention as she’d awarded him. He reached the completely useless virginal white lace knickers as they practically disintegrated before his eyes. Draco peeled them away slowly, bringing them to his nose, inhaling her smell.

“Hmm… I ‘d say you’ve been aroused for quite some time, Hermione.”

She wriggled, searching for any kind of stimulation. “You have no idea.”

“I think I do now,” he mused, pushing her legs apart and taking in the view. “I didn’t expect you to be completely bare, Miss Granger. That’s quite a pleasant surprise.”

The sultry tone of his voice, the feel of his fingers skimming across her smooth mound, had Hermione panting for him.

Draco let his fingers slip lower, pressing against her clit briefly as they tickled her folds. She began to beg — a bad mistake. Slytherins consider begging another term for ‘tease’.

He leaned forward, guiding his tongue along the path his fingers had travelled. Goosebumps erupted across Hermione’s skin as she writhed beneath him. Draco held her down with one hand across her stomach, his body trapping her legs. Delicate fingers gripped his hair as he sucked at her bare skin, his own digits perilously close to her entrance.

“Mmmm, you are exquisite,” he breathed. “You should taste yourself.”

“Feed me.”

He slipped two fingers inside, knowing she was wet enough to accommodate him. Still kissing and sucking her clit, he reached up to let her taste herself from his fingers. She treated the wet skin like his cock, licking and dragging her tongue along their length.

“More.”

Draco pulled his fingers away, teasing a nipple on his way back down to enter her again. He pumped hard, his teeth pinching her clit before his tongue soothed the pulsing flesh.

It took seconds. Despite his strength holding her down, Hermione still managed to buck under him as her orgasm flowed through her onto his waiting tongue. Moving quickly, Draco’s lips were on hers in an instant, treating her to the same delightful experience. She moaned against him, their juices mixed on their lips, their bodies automatically moving for each other. He was harder than ever for his witch.

He slid inside her easily, her body welcoming him home. Draco’s forearms encased her head, his eyes closing briefly. Hermione’s hands gripped his hips, caressing the cheeks of his arse, sliding across his back; she wanted to feel everywhere at once.

“I need you, Hermione,” he breathed, his eyes focused intently on hers. “Stay with me.”

Tears threatened to spill hearing the pure emotion in his words.

“Yes, yes, Draco,” she cried, throwing her head back as he moved deeply within her. “Oh, Gods, I love you.”

He bent his head to kiss away her tears. “And I love you.”

His body continued to rock against hers, his cock sliding in deeply, slipping out slowly. Hermione was brought to the brink over and over again until she could hardly take the pleasure anymore. Draco’s movements quickened, his breath heavy against her cheek, his whispers of love in her ear.

“I’m never letting you go, Hermione Granger. You’re mine, do you hear me? Mine to love, mine to keep. Mine to fuck.”

He emphasised the final word with a twist of his hips that had Hermione gripping him tightly both inside and out. She wrapped her legs around him, her breath catching as her orgasm brought on his own. Draco cried out against her, shaking with the effort of not collapsing down.

They stayed quiet for a few moments, not moving. The only sounds in the room their breathing and the crackle from the fireplace.

Gently, Draco pulled away, moving onto his side and leaning up on his arm.

“Welcome to Castleford.”

Hermione burst out laughing. “Is that what the Irish call a hundred thousand welcomes?”

“Fuck, I hope not!”

He summoned the cushions and throw from the couch, positioning them so they were both comfortable. Hermione hummed contentedly as she closed her eyes, the warmth of the throw and Draco’s body surrounding her.

“I need to send Potter a thank you. Any ideas?”

* * *

The couple spent the rest of the evening — and well into the morning — exploring both the Gryffindor and Slytherin welcoming customs and — much to the Secret Seven’s delight — a full Irish breakfast in the hotel turned into a very long lunch as they made their plans for the future.

Together.

Danny was going to come into an inheritance and, with the rather large sum, “purchase” An Taisce so the country house — which the Malfoys already owned — could be officially his in the eyes of the locals. He’d have to remain as Danny O’Malley in Castleford but that didn’t bother him. No doubt, Hermione would come up with a charm to make sure she didn’t call him Draco in public. He’d stay on at FitzGerald’s for a while — he loved his job anyway — but, eventually, he’d leave to pursue other areas of interest — namely, his beloved potions.

Once the house was registered on the Floo Network, Hermione would move in and commute to Hogwarts.

He’d also make a return to Wizarding Britain, but only because she’d be at his side.

Hermione Granger.

His.

* * *

_Potter_

_I trust you are well and planning to keep Pansy in the style to which she is accustomed._

_If it wasn’t for you, I guess I wouldn’t be the happiest man in Ireland right now. So — although it pains me to write this — I owe you a debt of gratitude._

_And, since I plan to make a return to society, you and I will have to tolerate each other in certain circles._

_For fuck’s sake, Potter, don’t make a show of Pansy (read: me) in public, or I (read: she) will fucking castrate you._

_As for my gift — you’re welcome._

_Malfoy_

Opening the small box on his desk, Harry Potter pulled out a copy of _Pure-blood Witches are Horny Bitches - How to Keep It Up_ by Luce E. Lastic.

_Sin é. That’s all, folks!_


End file.
